


The Sun Pale as Milk

by Icanseenow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Nearly Human Castiel (Supernatural), POV Sam Winchester, Post-Purgatory (Supernatural), Post-Season/Series 07, Purgatory, Season/Series 08, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 39,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25209766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icanseenow/pseuds/Icanseenow
Summary: Instead of Dean, Castiel is the one to return from Purgatory first. He finds Sam, and together they spend a year. Looking for Dean and not looking for Dean.
Relationships: Castiel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 170
Kudos: 212





	1. Chapter 1

He can hear the constant drip of the water.

_Drip, drip, drip._

Sam scans the room. The bathroom door is slightly ajar. He can picture Dean sauntering out of there after a shower, half naked, just the towel around his hips, and a joke at Sam’s expense on his lips.

Sam can picture it, but he doesn’t see it. The time of hallucinating that Dean is still with him has passed. He's got past that stage of grief. No more getting drunk and passing out crying. No more mental breakdowns while he tries to let go of Dean. Because he's decided he’s not letting go of Dean this time at all. There's not going to be another Ruby. No other mistakes like that.

He's going to find Dean. It's been what, a month? So? He can hold it together.

Sam's eyes wander over to the dirty windows, the empty second bed. He needs to stop getting two beds. It's a stupid costly habit, but it makes him feel just a little bit like Dean’s about to burst in again.

No one's here but Sam. The endless dripping of the water keeping him company.

* * *

Two months since Dean's disappeared into the wall. Another lead that went nowhere. Sam's clenching and unclenching his jaw.

He's killed a crossroads demon today. For being rude. Sam just lost it. Not when she implied that he was a bit obsessed with his brother - her making kissing noises a pathetic attempt to derail him - but when she got serious and gave him a look that might as well have been real sympathy. "I can't help you, Sam," she'd said. "I really don't know how to reach your brother. You came here for nothing." He’d pushed the demon knife into her without a second thought.

Sam pulls his legs up onto the hood of the car, and stares out into the dark of the night. He's looking around, still, as if Dean's just going to jump out of the corners of that field somewhere. He grips the bottle tight, drinks up the lukewarm beer. Because he's not like Dean: he doesn't keep the cooler stocked. Without Dean, Sam is a mess. And this - lying out on the Impala in the early morning hours, swiping demon blood off his face and daring himself to keep it there and not to taste it, that's his version of keeping it together.

Maybe it would help to lick it off, a voice that keeps him company likes to tells him. Maybe if he were stronger, if he could use his powers, than he could find his brother.

And then what? This time Dean wouldn't take him back. Not if he came back and found Sam knee-deep in demon blood, half-way into becoming something Dean despised.

No. It has to work this way, or not at all. Clean. Human. As human as Sam will ever be. As clean as someone like him can be.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees something moving. Sam's body tenses automatically; he sits up.

There's a figure in the field, standing, watching him. Sam's alert. _Dean_ , he thinks, but no - it's not. It can't be. A demon then, a monster. A - one blink and the figure is gone.

* * *

It returns. He sees the figure in the distance while slashing a demon's throat. He feels watched in his motel beds, but when he opens his eyes, he's alone. Someone across the street - but it's not. A storm illuminating the streets outside his window for only a second - a face. And nothing again.

He's just slowly going insane again, he figures.

* * *

One morning, Sam sits up in his motel room and feels the presence of someone but doesn’t see anything. He rubs over his face, and walks into the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, there he sits on his unmade bed: Castiel doesn't look like he did the last time they saw each other. His coat is drenched in mud and his face is dirty, hair speckled with earth.

"Cas?" Sam asks, to make sure he's not dreaming. He's never hallucinated Castiel before, and a hallucinated Dean has never spoken back. The figure before him shifts on the bed, coy and almost childlike, and says, "Hello, Sam."

Sam sits down across from him on the crisp second bed and just stares for a moment. "How are you-?"

"How am I alive? I don't know."

"Dean," Sam rasps, frantically looking around the room, when he understands. "Is he here too?"

"No." Castiel looks at his knees. "Dean is…" He looks back up again, straight into Sam's eyes. "He's not with me."

Sam's heart sinks.

Castiel tells him about waking up in the middle of a forest, about driving into a city on the back of a truck. Fighting to get a bus ticket, begging for food.

"Maybe he's out too," Sam suggests. "Or maybe whatever brought you back will bring him back too."

"Yes. Maybe." Castiel's eyes say something else.

"You need to take a shower."

When Castiel doesn't move, Sam gets up to stand before him. He thumps his index finger against Castiel's shoulder. The dirt crust is so thick that the soft movement shakes some of it off onto the bed. "Come on," he says. "Let’s get you cleaned up."

Finally, Castiel comes to stand. Sam wants to ask: Why are you dirty? Is your grace failing? Are you sick? But it's enough trauma for one day. Castiel doesn't need to speak of it right now, and Sam doesn't need to hear it.

He shoves him into the bathroom. Castiel turns to him, unsure.

"You need to undress and get into the shower," Sam explains. "I'm going to give you some fresh clothes."

Castiel nods, kicks off his shoes and unbuttons his pants. Sam wonders if he needs to explain the intrinsics of showering, but then Castiel is already down to his underpants. Sam walks out, decides Castiel will ask if he needs any more assistance. He leaves the door half-open in case of an emergency. Maybe. Or maybe he does it because the sounds of someone showering makes the company more real. It's not Dean. But it's a friend. It's Cas. A small victory. If he can come back here, then surely so can Dean?

The little voice tells him that this isn’t how it works. One human, one angel. It’s not the same. But for tonight, Sam decides to choose optimism.

Castiel knows enough about showering to use a towel to dry himself off. But he either doesn’t know or care enough about conventions to wrap it around himself when he steps into the room. Sam chooses to ignore his nakedness. He points at the clothes he’s unearthed from his bag. Everything looks comically big on Castiel, but he doesn’t complain. His thousand yard stare is different from his usual enquiring look. Sam won’t ask, not tonight. He bends forward and rolls up Castiel’s sleeves until his hands become visible. It feels good to be of service to someone. Sam thinks about telling Castiel he’s glad he is here. Instead, he asks, "Do you sleep now?"

Castiel nods.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam runs over a dog. The Impala has a dent that would drive Dean furious. The dog needs urgent care. Sam carries it in his arms into the next vet office, where an angry curly-haired woman gives him a reproachful look after she’s stitched the dog together. 

"He's not mine.“ Sam pleads for sympathy, but she's having none of it. So he pays for the treatment with one of his fake credit cards, and carries the dog outside. The animal is quite heavy in his arms, but it’s warm, soft and alive. 

Castiel gives the dog a quick once-over. 

"Are we going to keep her?" 

"Her?" Sam settles the dog onto the backseat, careful to keep it comfortable and so the stitches will hold. 

"It's a she." Castiel blinks. "Can't you tell?" 

The dog takes to Castiel more quickly than to Sam. It never wants to get away from his side. And once, when Sam asks about it, Castiel explains, "It's because she can smell how eager you are for her to like you."

He's never had to think about motels being pet-friendly before. And soon, Sam says, "Maybe it would be better if we had a more permanent home base? I mean, we're focussing on researching and finding Dean, anyway. We don't need to travel and we should stick around here, in case someone calls for the dog." 

"No one is going to call for the dog," Castiel says matter of factly, from the black leather couch, because this motel comes with extremely short beds, that leave Sam’s feet dangling over the end, but with a quite comfortable couch. "They would have called already, if someone missed her." 

"Maybe they haven't seen my bulletin yet?" Sam tries. And anyway, he wants to get back to the initial question. "Would that be weird? Not staying in a motel?" 

"I don't see the difference. Whether we stay in a motel or an apartment, it's all just a roof over our heads." 

This small town in Texas is no prime travel destination; renting is definitely going to be cheaper than a motel, even though they’re not going to stay for long. A month or two tops, until whenever they have more information to go on. Until they can get Dean back.

When they come to look for a place they find advertised in the local paper, the owner gives Castiel a stiff glance over. Sam has the urge to tell him to fuck off. Thankfully he doesn’t, because the guy ends up being their new landlord. 

"Are dogs allowed on the premise?" Castiel asks, and when they get a gruff yes, they take it. It's not cheap for what it is, but it's better than trying to hide an enormous dog. It's also the only place they can find that doesn't ask for all kinds of background checks and regular income. They care that Sam pays upfront for a month. 

It’s a sketchy one-bedroom apartment with a couch in the adjunct kitchen-living room area. 

Castiel wants to sleep on the couch, claiming he only needs a few hours each night anyway, but Sam insists that they alternate and take turns with the bed. 

For a few weeks, they each get a good night's sleep every other day. Until one night Sam lies awake and hears Castiel toss and turn on the much too short couch for much too long and thinks that this is ridiculous. He shoves his blanket off, opens the door, and walks over the wooden floor, careful to avoid the places he knows splinters lurk. He waits until he’s sure Castiel is aware of him standing there before him. 

"You wanna share the bed?" Sam asks into the dark. Castiel doesn't reply, but he gets up immediately. Pillow and blanket in his hands, he follow him into the bedroom. It's a bit too narrow for two people, and Sam has to lie on his side so they don't touch, but they make do. To his surprise, Sam wakes up well-rested. From now on, no more alternating sleep schedules.

This doesn’t mean anything. Castiel isn’t crazy anymore like he was before he went to purgatory, and he’s less of an angel than he was before - but he is still socially aloof and off, his social cues and skills not fully human. 

Sam doesn’t think too much about their sleeping arrangements. He has other things to worry about. 

* * *

The credit cards are maxed out. 

"Maybe I should get a job?" Sam says. They need money, and he doesn’t really want to run credit card scams anymore.

Of course, there are other ways of getting money illegally that Sam is quite apt at. But he has this odd notion that he needs to teach humanity to Castiel. That there's something to be said about doing it the 'right way', whatever that is. 

"I could get a job, too," Castiel says, looking up from his bowl of oatmeal that they've started eating every morning. It fits both their financial situation and Sam's taste. Sam usually eats his with peanut butter and a sliced banana; Castiel likes his with honey. 

"I don't know." God wags her tail against his leg. Sam still thinks they should have gone with a more traditional pet name, as he bends down to pat her. He suggested it as a joke the other night, and Castiel’s stuck with it. It’s about as funny as calling your cat Meow Zedong. 

"We'd still be looking for Dean," Castiel says, knowing exactly why Sam is hesitating. It's not like they have any idea where else to go. Sam has already tortured his way through half the underworld, without any idea of what else to do or look for. They're just reading through lore upon lore, aimlessly. 

"What do you think I could do?" Castiel asks, licking his spoon clean. "I'm not good at anything."

God is trying to get Castiel's attention. 

"Animals maybe,“ Sam says. "You're really good with animals."

"You can get payed for that?" Castiel asks, surprised. Then he lights up. 

"You could cut dogs' hair? Open a hair saloon for dogs?" Sam jokes. The oatmeal isn't as creamy anymore as it was straight from the stove, but it’s still warm enough. 

"No, I don't like dogs very much." He looks down at God. "You're an exception, it's because I know you now."

"What animals do you like?"

"Cats?" Castiel ventures. 

"Mhm." 


	3. Chapter 3

"I don't think this is going to work," says Sam, looking around the room. 

"Why not?" Castiel lies on the floorboard, one cat curled up on his chest like a licorice wheel, another one sleeping on the table next to him. "I’ve talked to them. They are fine with the dog being here." 

Sam considers asking what 'talking to the cats' means, but he’s not sure if that’s an insensitive question. 

"Yes, but-" It's difficult to argue when he doesn't even know what exactly the problem is. That this isn't the life of a hunter? He used to never want that life. "We're supposed to be looking for Dean," he says. It's the hammer he pulls out when he wants to crash the threatening feeling of calm, quench the happiness before it takes over. 

"It's perfect," Castiel says, unfazed. "I get payed for looking after cats for a short period of time. I enjoy their company and they enjoy mine, because unlike their owners, I don’t constantly misunderstand their wants and needs." 

"How did you even get this gig?" 

"A bulletin board in the supermarket," Castiel says. "I called, and they asked me to come around to their flat. When they saw their cats interact with me, they were immediately convinced." When Sam doesn't reply, Castiel stretches out his arm towards the table. He moves gently, as to not disturb either of the animals. His fingers disappear under the tabby and pull out a piece of paper. "I even found a job for you, too." 

Sam steps right next to him and reads the slip of paper in his hands. "You want me to walk dogs?" Sam looks down at Castiel, bemused. 

He'd thought he might go back to bartending, at least he's done that before. It's the only legal work he feels qualified for that doesn't involve guns. Maybe he could be a sort of handyman too, but he’s not sure if someone would hire him without asking for qualifications. 

"You regularly walk one dog anyway," Castiel says. "It wouldn't really take any more time out of your day."

"Maybe," Sam says, thinking: No. 

"We'd still be looking for Dean just as intently," Castiel claims, and Sam nods, a little irritated. "Yeah. Of course." 

* * *

And they do, look for him. As best as you can look for a needle in a hay stack, when the hay stack is made up of the whole world and the entire universe. The only coordinates they've got: Somewhere between heaven and hell. 

And if they start to tire. If they don't know where else to turn to, who could ever blame them? 

Something else happens: They settle. They get rid of the damp spots in the apartment. Castiel puts up a framed picture he finds on the side of the road, right above the bed. It’s an oil painting of the sky, black, with blue and yellow dots. Sam thinks it’s rather cheesy, but he also sees the way Castiel looks at it with reverence and longing. That’s enough reason to keep it there. 

* * *

And then one night, they lie awake in bed and look up at the ceiling. 

Castiel has taken to sleeping like a modern human being. In the sense that he loves it, but finds himself insomniac more nights than not. 

The dog doesn't sleep in their bed, not at night at least. Mainly for space reasons, although Sam claims it’s for hygiene too. But sometimes, when Sam allows himself the luxury of lying in bed in the afternoon, reading a book (lore, always looking, still looking), he enjoys the dog cuddling up to him. Happy she's grown used to him. She likes Sam more when Castiel isn't home. When there's just the two of them and the dozens of cats in the other room. 

"Sam?" Castiel asks from the side of the bed facing the window. Together they cover almost all of the mattress. When they lie on their backs as they do now, their shoulders are pressed together, and Sam's right arm hangs a little over the bed frame. He’s grown accustomed to sleeping on his side, only turning on his back when he feels his body going, when his mind drifts into the dream-like sphere of stream of consciousness thoughts. Those that Castiel has just drawn him out of. 

"Mhm?" 

They do that sometimes, talking. Not all nights. There are days that just end with a quick mumble of goodnights and that's the last of it, until they see each other again the next morning. But sometimes, it's different. One of them will say the other's name, to make sure they're still awake and then the words will flow. 

"I found something today," Castiel says, and all the muscles in Sam's body go rigid. Castiel must feel it, because he quickly adds, "Nothing that could help us get Dean back." 

"Oh," Sam says, unable to hide his disappointment. 

"I found out I was not the first angel in purgatory." 

Sam waits a beat. "What happened to them?" 

"She was retrieved," Castiel says. "And then heaven killed her. They say it was God’s orders. But the text didn’t say why she was there in the first place." 

They never speak about purgatory. Not in any sense that is not directly related to finding Dean. Castiel never shares more than is necessary. Sam doesn't push for it. He knows if it were relevant to their search, Castiel would provide the necessary information unprompted. As for the rest, it is obvious how much the memories upset Castiel, and Sam knows a thing or two about not sharing trauma. 

"I left Dean in Purgatory," Castiel says. "I left him on his own, before I got back to earth."

Sam's heart thumps against his rip cage. He's not been eating well. A little better since they've moved into the house, and since Castiel has to eat regular meals too, but Sam knows he is still too thin. If he looks down, he can almost see his heart thumping against the thin layer of skin and cotton. 

"I left him because I knew they were going to go after him, and I wanted to draw them away. I thought, if I could keep them from him, if I could keep him safe, maybe I could - I did not think it would make it okay. I never thought I could make it okay. What I did is unforgivable, but if they had killed me there, it would have been a purposeful death at least." 

Sam is quiet. He thinks Dean would have preferred for Castiel to stay with him. He thinks of his brother alone, in this place, where Castiel thought he needed to keep Dean safe by sacrificing himself. And now there he still is, alone in purgatory. Just him and the endless enemies. Fighting, nothing but fighting. 

"I thought you could not die in purgatory," Sam says. 

"You can't," Castiel says. "Not permanently. But that doesn't mean that dying is any less painful or feels any less real. I assume it’s possible one could just lie down and give up, and let oneself be killed and eaten, every day anew. But that's not like Dean." 

"No," Sam agrees. "It's not." 

They remain quiet for a while, and Sam wonders if this is it. 

"You know I would not have left purgatory if I’d had a choice," Castiel says, barely a whisper. Except Castiel doesn't whisper. His voice just gets really quiet, like someone turning down the volume on a radio. 

"I know." Sam puts his hand on top of the thick blanket, feels how cold the cotton is. He debates with himself, and then says, "I'm glad you're here anyway." 

"I'm glad I'm here too," Castiel says, shame resounding in his voice. "I just wish Dean was here as well." 

"If Dean were here, then we wouldn't be where we are." Sam doesn’t know what he’s trying to say, if he is merely pointing out the obvious.

"Yes." 

There's some meowing outside their room. They should go and make sure the cats aren't mauling each other to death. 

Castiel turns his body, a hand on Sam's shoulder. "He will be back," he says. "Won't he?" 

"Yes," Sam says. Because everything else is not an option. Because everything else would not let him go on with this life, and he knows it. 

So they go on living like this for a while. Sam walks some dogs. Castiel catsits. They make barely enough to scrape by, but it's honest work. They still read lore. Sam still goes to the library every week to research. He also reads the news, local and world. To read and find what could help Castiel become stronger again. Maybe they'll find something apocalyptic. One time, he reads a small mention, indicating a local vampire nest. He closes the tap. He tells himself it's because they don't have time to get side-tracked. A bunch of no good vampires are not going to help them get closer to Dean. He doesn't mention anything to Castiel when he gets back home. And later in the evening, when they're walking the dog, Castiel says: "I got 50 dollars of gratitude today. Do you recall Herbert the black cat with the white spots under her chin? Her behavior has improved so much since she was with us, the owners were so grateful they wanted to thank us personally."

"Wow," Sam says, a little thrown by Castiel’s use of the plural. "That's generous." 

Castiel stops in his tracks. Sam has to fold the leash around his hand twice, so God won’t run off too far. 

Castiel puts his hands inside the pockets of his coat. He's branched out a little in the way he dresses, but he still likes his coats. 

"Do you enjoy Thai food?" Castiel asks, and nods at the sign of the restaurant Sam didn’t realize they were standing in front of. 

"I don't think they allow dogs inside." 

"I can get something to take away." Castiel looks at Sam almost pleadingly. "Please," he says. "Let me buy food for us." Sam can do nothing but to shrug and nod - "Okay, sure." - and watch Castiel enter the restaurant. 

An hour later, they’re sitting on the floor in front of the TV with take-out boxes in their laps, surrounded by lazy cats and one yawning dog. 

Sam eats his Pad Thai. God licks over the arch of Castiel’s naked foot; he is too entranced by Columbo on the screen to pay any attention to it. Sam thinks of mentioning the trench coat, but Castiel hasn’t worn one since he’s been back, and another painful memory might be lurking there, so he keeps quiet. 

He dives his chopsticks into his noodles so they stand up by themselves, and lays his hand flat onto his own knee. He looks at Castiel for a long time, before he says: "Thanks for this." 

Castiel turns around with a smile. 


	4. Chapter 4

  
They go to an organic food market in the middle of the town center. There aren’t too many stands, but there's vegetables, fruit, flowers, and some specialities. Castiel buys a pot of lavender honey, that is thick and rich, and not bad on the sourdough bread that the small bakery stand next to it sells. 

Sam buys too many artisan apples. They're sorted into ten different varieties, names Sam has never heard of before. He's always liked apples, but gas station ones generally don't come with little white labels that say things like 'this variety used to be ubiquitous in the olden days, but has all but died out' or 'a softer, mellower taste, with a tart crunch'. He reads every label, and the grey-haired seller with friendly lines around his eyes takes him for an apple expert. "Ah, I see, a connoisseur! It's such a shame to think most people don’t know anything past Granny Smith and Golden Delicious nowadays. You and me, we are a dying breed." 

Sam nods, feeling like a fraud. When Castiel finds him later, Sam has a tote bag full of apples over his shoulder. He has already forgotten all of their names, but he's in a good mood. They both are. They buy a slice of rich vegan chocolate cake from a blonde woman with a toothy smile, and share it on a park bench a little away from the commotion. 

Castiel eats most of it. It's been interesting watching him explore tastes, a byproduct of his failed angelic abilities. 

Sam is wonders what others desires and tastes he's started to develop, as Castiel watches a woman in a dress much too short for this windy weather walk past them, her hips swaying side to side.

"This is delicious," Castiel says, fingers chasing the cake crumps on the paper plate. 

"Yeah, I think by now we’ve established that you really like chocolate," Sam says with fondness. As in affirmation Castiel puts the last crumbs on the tip of his tongue. 

Sam stretches out his arm and puts it on the bench behind Castiel's shoulders. He's only notices the gesture once it’s done. Castiel is still smiling, so it's probably fine. It’s casual enough, they’re not even touching, but Sam’s arm feels like it’s on fire. 

"Come on." He slips away with minimal contact. "I gotta get all these apples home before they start to rot."

"They don’t ripen quicker out here than they do in our kitchen."

Sam huffs, amused. 

"You could make a pie," Castiel suggests, as he finally comes to stand too. 

Sam tightens the tote bag around his shoulder with one hand and puts the other inside his jacket. "I can't bake." 

"You said the same thing about cooking."

"Well yeah, and I can't," Sam insists. 

Food is food for Castiel. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich isn't worth less than a gourmet 5 course menu to him, as long as it’s tasty. They eat simple most of the time, but not as simple as Sam did on his own. They eat regular meals now. Pasta with sauce from a jar. Rice and vegetables. Sam knows he should get some more protein in his diet. While he’s always been fine with eating meat and fish, and he still is when they're eating out, he finds he's not really comfortable preparing it. It's ridiculous. He’s had so much blood on his hands, both literally and figuratively. It’s not that he feels sorry for these animals as much as he just doesn't want to touch them dead. The wet food for the cats and the dog is different. Buying a piece of meat for himself, sawing through the flesh, feeling how much it once was alive - it reminds him of things he’d rather forget. 

He wonders if Dean has to eat. If you need nutrients in purgatory, and what that could possibly entail. If he’s biting into raw pieces of meat, blood dripping from his face.

He wants to ask Castiel, but like most times when his mind veers in dangerous directions, he shoves the thoughts down. 

* * *

Sam gets up, without waking Castiel. He feeds the dog. There are no cats this week, which is mostly sad for Castiel who thrives when he gets to take care of them. To his surprise, Sam finds himself missing the extra furry presence too. God seems to go more stir-crazy too when there’s no other animals at home. 

Financially, it's okay. By now they're primarily relying on Sam's income from helping around town. Apparently he overestimated the importance of degrees in the field. Him being able to fix their sink is proof enough. He doesn’t work today. 

Sam decides to go on a run. Afterwards, when he's in the shower, he wonders about that Indian place that opened its doors last week. He thinks Castiel's probably never tried Indian food before, at least not with an almost-human palate. Maybe they could go there some time. 

He makes oatmeal for the both of them. 

Castiel is awake, his hair a mess, and he sits down in his pajamas. They eat, not talking. Castiel is not a good conversationalist in the mornings, and Sam doesn't dislike the silence settling between them. 

"I thought about driving out with the dog today," Sam says. 

"Do you mean to go hiking?" 

Sam shrugs. "Maybe. We could hike out with God, and then bring her back home, let her get some rest while we grab some dinner. Maybe?" 

"Yes. I’d like that."

Castiel spoons oatmeal into his mouth, some of the honey drips over the spoon and runs down his lower lip and then his chin. He chases it with the tip of his tongue. 

Sam looks away. He gets up and hands him a paper towel. "It’s so weirdly quiet without a cat trying to shove everything off the table," he says. 

"Yes, it’s almost unbearably quiet."

The day turns out well. On their hike God chases a squirrel up a tree, and Sam has to get out the leash. Castiel points out a type of herb to him and explains its purposes and uses in witchcraft. The Indian Palace serves excellent Chana Masala, and Castiel takes two buttery Naan. 

Sam is almost in bed, brushing his teeth in front of the bathroom mirror, when he realizes he's not thought of Dean all day. 

He lies awake for most of the night, tossing and turning. Tomorrow, something will need to change. He needs to do something. 

Tomorrow is a day full of work. The day after tomorrow then. 


	5. Chapter 5

  
Sam is feeding the animals. He’s just filled the dog’s bowl, and tries to shoo the cats towards the other side of the kitchen. It’s a feeble attempt to keep them away; they swarm right back through his legs. They don’t trust he’s not forgotten about them. There are five kittens from the same litter, each one barely bigger than his hand. Sam never thought that there were that many people that needed their cats sat. And who in their right mind goes on a business trip for three months, when they’ve got cats this young at home? 

He shouldn’t grumble about it, after all it’s these people help pay for this. Not that they couldn’t do without at this point. Since Sam doesn’t walk dogs anymore and has started repairing things around town instead, he makes just about enough for the both of them. They don’t spend a lot of money besides rent, food and gas. 

He mostly does small stuff. To his luck, all real repairman in and around town are permanently overbooked. And it’s easy work. He likes working with his hands, and he likes how functional, A to B, and structured it is. There’s a broken washing machine that needs fixing, and he fixes it. He charges less than others, too, so he even gets to make people happy. He’s helping people. Maybe not in the way he used to. 

He doesn’t like thinking of them, but there are other hunters out there. They’re still doing the job. The world doesn’t need him to kill. 

And they never could save everyone by themselves, anyway. 

If there was an apocalypse out there, he’d tend to it. 

* * *

It happens quite naturally, slowly, like everything between them has. As if they were normal people. As if Lucifer’s vessel and a fallen angel of the lord were a perfectly normal match.

Sam sometimes wonders what they must look like to an outsider. When people glance at them outside, what do they think they’re looking at?

There have been moments when Sam has wanted to kiss Castiel. Nothing dramatic, no grand gestures. Just sometimes. When they talk in bed late at night. Or when Castiel carries out the trash, looking a little lost as if the whole concept still feels foreign to him. Or whenever he tries out anything new and Sam can see Castiel’s mind working, trying to figure out if he likes it or not. 

He’s examined the feelings and always comes back with mixed results. He doesn’t over-interpret it. He’s never been this close to someone 24/7 that he wasn’t related to, without it being physical. Maybe it’s body memory and his mind giving him cues because that’s the normal steps you take. You hug, you hold hands, you kiss.

And then there’s the loneliness he remembers. Lack of touch can make a person go crazy. So he appreciates Castiel’s shoulder pressing into his, when they sit by sit on the couch, watching TV. And he even appreciates the small kicks that sometimes wake him up. There’s human connection and touch. Innocent really, warm and important. 

This is how he pictures they’re lives going. Until they find Dean, obviously. (Because of course he hasn’t given up. They’re just at an impasse.) 

* * *

They eat dinner. Some lentil pasta concoction that tastes okay, but that Castiel proclaims delicious. It’s not true but Sam appreciates the sentiment. 

The dog’s snout lies on Sam’s thigh. She’s a big girl and reaches it with ease.

"I know you’re hungry," Sam tells her, "but we got to keep a schedule, and," – he checks his watch – "you still need to wait a bit". 

"Do you really think it would hurt her to eat half an hour early?" 

Castiel’s question is open. There’s no hidden accusation; he’s curious about human rules and laws. He wants to understand if keeping a feeding schedule serves a higher purpose than having rules for rules’ sake. 

"Do you think she’d like to try some lentils?" Castiel asks, his fingers already moving towards his plate. 

God wags her tail, slides her head off Sam’s leg and taps over to Castiel. 

Sam tries to keep a disapproving look on his face, but he smiles too, as the dog licks Castiel’s hand clean. 

* * *

"I’m sorry you came here for nothing." The witch shrugs, a pained expression on her face, almost like she feels bad for them. Or maybe she just looks uncomfortable because Sam has her pinned against the wall. 

It’s been a long drive out here from Texas. When Sam had first stumbled upon her, he had tried to keep his imagination from running wild and his expectations low. But here she was, someone with a supposed connection to purgatory. 

"Did you or did you not get someone out of purgatory?" Sam hisses. 

She turns her face away from him. "You were there," she tells Castiel. "Why don’t you explain it to him?" 

Sam’s eyes flicker to Castiel’s. "What are you talking about?"

"He’s an angel," she says. "That’s why he could get out. And me? I can get out beasts, monsters, but a human? He was never supposed to be in there in the first place."

"So?" Sam asks, anger rising in his voice. "So, why the hell would that mean you can’t get him out?"

"He has a human soul," she says. "It’s bound down there. I can’t just-" She mimics pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

"If not you, then someone else! Tell us! There has to be way! " Sam demands, but in his heart he already knows the answer. 

"If there is a way, then I don’t know it." 

She speaks like a mother to a distressed child. 

He believes her. 

On their way out, Castiel’s hand lies on Sam’s shoulder, but he doesn’t speak. 

They sit in the Impala. Sam can’t immediately start the car. 

"She isn’t lying," Castiel says.

"I know. That’s not why we’re still sitting here." 

"You heard her," Castiel says. "She doesn’t know. That doesn’t mean, there’s no way. It just means we are right where we were before."

Sam agrees out loud. But it’s not true. He’s not where they were when they started. He’s not giving up. He’s resigning himself to realism. The likelihood of never seeing Dean again is big, and acknowledging that isn’t wrong. 

He remembers now, Dean, holding his head in his hands, grabbing Sam’s hair so it hurt and making him promise. If Dean were to die, he’d go on and try to live a normal life. He promised he’d try to find happiness. 

Dean is not dead. Dean is in a place between life and death. But the promise still holds, Sam thinks. He just doesn’t know if he can do it. 

He starts the car. Castiel tells him he’s very tired, and Sam realizes that he is too. It feels odd taking a motel room after all this time. It already felt strange not taking God with them, and having a neighbor look after her. He misses her. Then he catches himself. How can he think of missing a dog when seconds ago he’s realized he might never see his own brother again. 

"It’s okay to take a rest when you’re tired," Castiel says, meaning: It’s okay to sleep instead of running your brother’s car into a tree. But he means more than that, too. 

When they step out of the car, Sam asks Castiel if he is hungry. When they get a room and their keys, Sam asks if there’s any food around. He’s directed to a diner across the street. 

They take a seat near the window. Sam orders them BLT sandwiches, coffee and cherry pie. 

Sam’s halfway through his piece of pie, when the song changes, and instead of Johnny Cash, Bob Seger starts playing. He reminisces about watching a stripper walk down mainstreet, looking young and sweet. Before Sam can stop himself his eyes well up. 

Castiel lets him cry. He doesn’t say anything; Sam sobs in silence. To anyone else, it must look rude. A man sitting in the booth, eating his pie in slow delicate bites, while the man across from him cries his heart out to a Bob Seger song. But Sam, he’s grateful, he doesn’t need to explain. 

Once the song is over, and Sam stops crying and manages to drink his coffee. Castiel looks uncomfortable as he asks - not if he is okay. Thank God, no, because there is no way to not reply to that with a lie or at least a platitude. Castiel asks: "Can I do anything to help?"

And, Sam, his eyes wet and his nose full of snot, starts laughing. He has to put down his mug and wipe coffee from his lips. He takes a paper towel and wipes it over his face, still laughing, and now he’s completely certain that the waitress has to be watching them. Then again, so what, she must have seen her share of crazy late at night at a Diner this part of town. 

When Sam stops laughing, and Castiel is still looking at him with calm worry in his eyes, Sam thinks: Without you, I’d probably have killed that witch. Without you, I’d probably be dead by now. Without you, I’d drown my sorrow in something, anything. 

What he says is: "Sorry. It was just a really long day."

"Yes," Castiel says. "It was." 

He too looks exhausted. 

Sam falls asleep quickly in their motel room. He’s got a double, without thinking about it, and it feels wrong. Cold. Lonely. 

* * *

Sam doesn’t cry again. What he does do: stop looking. It’s not a conscious decision. He’s out of options to try. He could go out there and torture a million demons and witches, and for what? 

He asks Castiel what he wants to do. They could go and try to find some other angels. Maybe they could do something about his grace. Maybe there’s a chance. But Castiel doesn’t want to. Besides, he says, he’s quite certain if he showed his face to any angels, they would kill him. 

To this, to both their surprise, Sam smiles. "They would have to go through me." 

Castiel looks up at this, startled. "I would rather not risk losing you." 

"Even if it meant getting your grace back?"

"No. Of course not." Castiel says. "You don’t deserve to suffer for my mistakes."

"We’ve both made mistakes," Sam says. 

"Yes, but mine brought Dean to purgatory." 

Sam huffs. "Cas, he’s... this isn’t just your fault."

Castiel’s shoulders slump, he looks away, his hands in disappear in the pockets of his jeans. "How is it not?"

"You were trying to do the right thing."

"The excuse of everyone who destroys worlds." He looks up at Sam again. "You would beat yourself up over it. I know you would. Sam, don’t lie to me."

"I’m not, I-" He gets up and steps closer. Of course he would. 

When he embraces Castiel, he waits until the motion is reciprocated, before he pulls him close. "I get it," he says into Castiel’s hair. "And I’m not going to lie: You fucked up. But Dean would have forgiven you." He makes it sound like Dean is dead. "He probably has forgiven you. And so have I, Cas. Man, you know that, right?"

"Yes, but I don’t understand why. Did you never lose faith in me?" 

Sam ponders the question for moment. He’s tried to kill Castiel before, he stabbed him in the back.   
But it is easy to forgive Castiel once he shows remorse. Sam knows the pain of trying to do the right thing, trying to save the world and failing spectacularly. 

"I know you’ve always been trying to do the right thing, and I know what that’s like," Sam says. "When you think you’re doing the right thing, and it feels like the goal justifies any means."

"Ruby?" Castiel asks. 

It feels odd that it’s her Castiel first thinks of, out of all the mistakes Sam’s made. When the main problem there was trusting the wrong person. Getting so desperate for sympathy and help, he saw good where there was none. 

"Not just her," Sam says. "You know how often I’ve taken the wrong turns, and Dean still forgave me?"

"Yes, but you are his brother." 

Sam shakes his head. "You’re very important to him too. Once he considers you family, he doesn’t give up on you easily. Believe me. If he’s anything, he’s loyal."

Castiel looks up at him. "I hope you are right." 

"It will be okay."

They promise each other that Dean is going to be fine. They both know he’s not. 

Sam promised Dean that he’d try and let go to live a normal life. But this is not the apple pie version either of them were picturing then. This is a strange in-between. 

On a thursday morning, Sam has an early appointment, a clogged drain, which Sam thinks is such an easy problem to fix that it would be more efficient if he taught everyone to do it themselves. But he’s earning good money this way and he enjoys going to different people’s houses. He’s always been in a lot of people’s houses. It’s different when you’re not hunting a monster or ghost. He’s found people can be more grateful when you repair their heater than when you save their lives. Probably because it doesn’t involve adjusting their complete world view. No one likes to be shaken to the core. 

He stops the car in front of a small white house, a toolbox in his hand. He doesn’t have to ring; he’s right on time. The door opens when he steps closer. A petite woman around his age opens, her hand on her hips. Her washed-out white T-shirt creases creases under her breasts. "You’re here for the the drain, right?"

He nods, puts the toolbox in his left hand, and stretches out the right. "Sam Winchester."

"No need to be so formal," she says, like he’s not had clients who were annoyed by how cordial he was before.

She takes his hand anyway. She shows him the kitchen. She stays, watching him work. Some people watch him like a hawk, some immediately retreat like shy animals once he enters their home. 

She tells him he’s had trouble with the drainage on and off for years, since she’s moved in three years ago really. Her husband used to do it, but now they’re divorced. "Turns out he was good for something after all." He is not looking at her. He’s unclogging a drain. It’s only hair and remainders of food and slimy substances that he can’t decipher. He thinks she is quite young to be married and divorced. "Thank God there weren’t any kids," she says. An awkward silence ensues. 

"What about you?" 

"What about me?" He lies on the ground, his back half inside the wooden cabinet under the utility sink. He’s screwing the trap back on. He tells her he’s put a new rubber gasket in. That’s a language he feels more comfortable in.

"Are you married? Kids?" she says, and then, honestly shocked by her forwardness, she adds: "I’m sorry, I was just trying to make conversation. I wasn’t-" 

"It’s fine." He puts down the screwdriver and leans up a little. "I’m single." 

"Oh, how come?"

She asks with so much enthusiasm, that he laughs. She joins in, a little unsure. 

He sits up on the ground, pulls up his knees. "Long story. I come with baggage." 

"Doesn’t everyone?" 

She holds out her hand to help him up, but he declines. His hands are dirty. He gets up easily without any help. He feels her watching him, as he turns on the faucet and washes his hands off grime. He checks the sink for leakage. "It should be fine now."

"Wow, you’re fast." 

The cabinet door closes with a soft clank. They look at each other, and don’t move, until she, flustered, tells him she’s going to get her money. 

"Listen," she says, shoves her hair behind her eyes and fingers out the bills out of her black wallet. It looks like a man’s wallet. Maybe it was her ex husband’s, he thinks. "Thank you. I’m really grateful you could come so quickly."

"Glad I could help."

She hands him the money. He takes it, but she’s reluctant to let go. 

"My friend told me about you," she says. "She mentioned you do everything. Around the house, I mean."

"Everything I know how to."

"My roof leaks. Do you do that kind of stuff, too?"

"I could take a look," he says. "I have to be at another client’s house in a bit, but I got a minute. I could take a look right now, and let you know if it’s something I can do or if you need to hire someone else."

"That’d be great." 

It should be easy enough to fix. They make an appointment three days from now. 

She squeezes his hand on his way out, and tells him how thankful she is.

He gets home when it’s already dark outside. At the door, God greets him, her tail waggling in the air. Sam tries to get his dirty shoes off, while simultaneously petting her, her soft snout wetting his jeans. 

"Hello, Sam." Castiel is lying on the floor in the main room, a single cat curled up on his belly. "I would get up to greet you, but she’d be very annoyed if I woke her now. How was your day?"

"Good. And yours?"

"It was good. I read three books, and cooked mint tea from fresh leaves." He points at the small table near the window. 

Sam goes to sit down in the chair next to it. God follows him and immediately settles at his feet. Castiel strokes the sleeping cat and looks at Sam. "What’s wrong?"

"Why should anything be wrong?" 

Castiel turns his head away, his hand never stopping its motion over short smooth fur. 

Sam scratches God behind the ears. 

They don’t speak again until much later when Castiel asks about dinner plans. Things are normal, normal-ish, but Sam’s mind is not really there. He couldn’t care less about food right now. He thinks of promises made. 


	6. Chapter 6

Three days later, the leak in the roof is easy to fix. 

Afterwards, she pushes her hips out, and bites her lips, surprisingly self-conscious. She looks different today. The casual jeans and T-shirt are replaced by a dress, she’s wearing make up and she’s done something with her hair. Sam only notices this because he’s been picturing her over the last days. 

"I’m guessing you have to hurry off to another client," she says. 

"Why?" It’s dusty in the attic and he wipes his hands on his T-Shirt. "Do you have another leak I need to fix?"

He didn’t mean to make it sound like a double entendre, but he’s certain they both heard it. She hikes up her lips into a smile, but drops it quickly again. "No. I wanted to ask if you wanted a coffee?" 

It’s a black button down dress, cotton, nothing fancy, but it looks good on her. 

"Sure." He wipes his hands again. "I could use a coffee."

He walks two steps behind her, down the narrow staircase. It’s a big house for one person. A place people move to who want to build a family. Sam wonders where her ex-husband is. Down the road or out of the country. And whatever happened between them. 

"You’re not from here, are you?" She turns on the coffee machine, the spluttering noise swallows some of their words. Sam tries to speak clearly. 

"I’m originally from Kansas, but-" How to sum up what brought him here. "I’ve lived all over." 

"Like?"

He tells her about Stanford in lieu of a life on the road. In lieu of his life in hell. 

"Mhm," she says, as she gets out two mugs, and puts them down onto the counter. 

"What?" he asks, casually. 

"I’m just wondering how a guy like you ends up in a town like this. Did you meet someone here, a woman?" 

"No. A dog. I ran over a dog." 

He tells her the story of God. Of the bulletin. Of finding a place to stay, so if her owner called, he’d be there. He doesn’t mention Castiel. He can’t explain to himself why. 

They drink black coffee. She never offers sugar or milk; he doesn’t ask. She talks about her work as a High School Art teacher and of her failed career as an artist. She’s humble but not self-deprecating. When he tells her he’d like to see some of her art, she’s surprised. She leads him to the living room. He sits down on a plain brown couch. She reaches for a folder. 

"Are you interested in art at all?" she asks, as he flips through the pieces. Mixed media collages, photographs of dark streets, a painting of a flower, an abstract drawing. They are well-done as far as he can tell, aesthetically pleasing. Suddenly he’s wondering how he got here, sitting on a client’s couch. "I took a few courses in college, but I’m really no expert," he tells her. The thought of college will forever be linked with Jessica. Her face like through a Gaussian filter, the way she still appears in his dreams sometimes. "These are beautiful."

He reaches the last one, and carefully closes the folder, and lays it onto the coffee table. 

Later, after they’ve talked a bit more, she will reach across and touch his knee, and she will kiss him. He will let her. 

\- 

When Sam gets back home later that day, her name and number in his phone, he feels strange. 

Castiel is - untypical for him - lying on the bed, on top of the comforter. There are no cats. God lies at his feet. He holds a book in his hand, positioned over his face, while his other arm cushions his head. His right leg is crossed over his left. He looks very human to Sam. 

"Oh, hello," Castiel says and puts the book aside. "I wasn’t sure when you’d be home, you didn’t say. I meant to cook.“

"I’m not really hungry," Sam says, "that’s okay." He notices he’s said it the wrong way round. He chalks it up to nerves and decides to ignore it. He sits down on his side of the bed. 

Castiel eyes him with a critical look on his face. "You look exhausted," 

Castiel’s former book hand rests on his stomach now. He’s wearing a fuzzy grey sweater with holes under the left arm. He’s got it in a second hand store a month ago. The cats all seem to love it. If he leaves it lying around, it’s never not occupied as a sleeping place. 

"A client," Sam finally says. "I was at her house a few days ago, and she asked me to come back to fix something else. A leaking roof." 

They look at each other. 

"And did you?" Castiel asks. "Fix her leaking roof?"

"Yes, I did. It was easy to fix." 

"And are you going to go back and fix more for her?"

"I’m not sure.“

"I see."

Sam splays out his hand on top of the sheets. "What do you think?" It’s a stupid question, and he can’t ask it looking anywhere but at his own fingers. 

"What do I think about you returning to this woman’s house to fix her things? Why would I have an opinion on this?" 

Sam thinks he might be imaging the curt tone in Castiel’s voice, but maybe not. 

"Sam, you’re free to do whatever you want to do." 

Now he is certain that Castiel knows what they are talking about.

"Yeah, of course." He smiles, more nervous than he should be. "I just thought I’d ask, since I might be over there more often, and-"

Castiel reaches out, puts a hand on Sam’s. "I’m flattered you care enough about my opinion to ask, but you’re obviously free to date."

"Yeah, sure, obviously," Sam says. His smile tenses even more. 

"I’m gonna start dinner then." Castiel gets up, and leaves the room. 

Sam takes the book in his hands. A collection of poetry from the 19th century. He’s never seen it around before; Castiel must have gone out and bought it on his own. 

A deep sadness sweeps over Sam. It takes him a few days until he figures out, that he’s wanted Castiel to object. 

He meets her again three times. They go to a restaurant. They go on a walk. They go to a cinema, where she kisses him again. She is nice and funny, but there is a certain sadness to her that he can appreciate, too. 

Maybe, Sam thinks, this is closer to what Dean had in mind. 


	7. Chapter 7

It takes Sam some time to realize what it means that he wanted Castiel to object. 

It’s a thing he loses sleep over, and of course Castiel notices. 

"Is there anything I can do to help?" 

It’s three at night and Sam has been tossing and turning for two hours, trying to do it as gently and quietly as possible and failing miserably. 

"I’m fine," Sam says. "I’m just gonna go and get a glass of water." 

His whole body is one big itch. He plans on Castiel falling back asleep while he’s gone. He goes to the kitchen, as he said he would. With his glass of water he sits down on the couch. He pulls up his legs and wonders how he ever managed to sleep out here. The lamp on the street is flickering like it always does, in an untimeable rhythm. Sam looks around the room. He hopes he won’t get a dog waggling his tail any second, thinking she’ll get food now. 

He sits there for maybe ten minutes before Castiel comes in. Wordlessly he sits down onto the ground in a lotus position. He touches Sam’s naked foot on the rim of the couch, holds it still, and when Sam does nothing, he starts to run his thumb down the arch of it. 

"I didn’t mean to wake you," Sam says. 

"I don’t mind. You know I don’t need as much sleep as you do."

"Look, Cas-" He halts, considers their position. They’re in their living room, in their house, Castiel giving him a foot massage, and Sam thinks - Sam says: "I’m not sure if I can do this." 

Castiel lets go off his foot at once. He doesn’t ask what Sam means. Sam very much wishes he would ask, because he’s desperate to understand himself.

"What do you want me to do?" Castiel asks instead, his hands on his own thighs now, palms facing up. 

Sam presses his fingers into the sockets of his eyes until he’s seeing small white dots. 

"I was supposed to find Dean. I promised myself I would. And when I realized that was probably never going to happen, then, then I told myself, I’d do what I promised Dean instead. I’d let go and get a normal life, and - I don’t think I can do it?" He rubs over his forehead now, not looking at Castiel. "She is really nice. She is nice and pretty, and I could see myself doing it, you know? Living this apple pie life with her, and then I thought of you. And what would you even do? Live here on your own?"

He knows he’s getting ahead of himself. He’s presuming a lot on all fronts. 

He dares to look up. 

Castiel waits some time, long enough to make sure Sam’s finished before he says: "You shouldn’t compromise your love life or your life in general on my account." 

"That is so not what I meant."

"What did you mean then?" 

"I’m thinking I might not want that," Sam says. He doesn’t break eye contact. "I think I might want to stay here with you instead. The thought of losing this. When I tried to picture it, it kind of felt like losing my family all over again. And I know this must sound insane, it’s just casual dating after all."

"It’s a good thing you decided to tell her early on. No one likes to get led on."

Sam wonders where he’s got that expression from, 'lead on'. He cannot picture Castiel saying it pre-Purgatory. But then, Castiel spends a lot of time watching TV and reading now. 

He wonders if Castiel has felt led on, too. But when he studies Castiel’s face, it’s free of judgement. 

Sam has not, in fact, told her that he’s not seeing her again. 

"I want nothing more than to get Dean back," Sam says. "And I’m not giving up, but I also want to do what he told me to do. And I know this, right here, isn’t what he had in mind. But I think it’s the closest I’m gonna get until he’s back." 

There’s a dreadful long pause until Castiel says, "I don’t understand."

There’s only the tiniest bit of space between them now. 

"I don’t want to take advantage of you," Sam says, quietly. 

A car passes outside the window, accentuating the silence between them. 

"For someone to take advantage of someone, there has to be something worth taking." 

Sam winces. He wonders if it’s possible that Castiel is more broken than he is.

"Are you sure you’d not rather leave and look for -" Sam halts. "That you want to stay here with me? I’m pretty sure by this point no one is going to call for God." 

"No, she belongs to us now," Castiel agrees. "She would not want to leave us anyway."

Water drops down into the metal of the kitchen sink. Sometimes it’s impossible to stop the dripping, and they have to put a sponge under the faucet, so it doesn’t keep them up at night. The walls are thin and the door to their room doesn’t close properly. Sam has joked about the fact that he never gets around to repairing their home, when it’s all he does outside. 

"You can’t want to look after cats forever," Sam says. 

Something in Castiel’s face changes, as an understanding dawns on him. "You think I’d rather be somewhere else?"

Sam huffs. "Well, I mean, you’d definitely prefer heaven to this." 

Castiel looks around the room. Over from the kitchen to the bookshelf full of second hand novels stacked between the lore. His eyes land on Sam. He blinks twice. "No," he says. "I have never wanted to leave a place less than this." He waits a beat. "But if you want to leave, and will have me, I’ll go anywhere with you. If you want to leave and be on your own, I will respect that too. Don’t make sacrifices because of me."

"But what if I want to," Sam asks, "make sacrifices because of you?" 

Sam’s chest feels tight. 

Castiel has his hands around his own feet now, a child’s posture. He whips his knees up and down a little, then he finally smiles up at Sam. "We both want to stay here."

"Yes."

"Then I see no reason why we shouldn’t." 

It sounds so easy. 

Sam slides off the couch onto the floor. He takes Castiel’s hand in his, slides his thumb over each knuckle. They remain like this for a while, until God starts whining and draws their attention. 

"She wants food," Castiel says, a soft smile on his lip. 

"Does she ever not?" 

* * *

Sam’s chest tightens when he sees her name on his phone screen, but he picks up. She tells him not to worry, she’s not a crazy stalker. She got that he doesn’t want to go on another date, but well - the drain. 

"The drain is clogged again?" he asks, irritated. "The one I fixed?" He’s sitting outside on a bench, God at his side, her tongue sticking out. It’s a warm day, and when he strokes through her fur, his hand comes away full of hair held there by his sweat. 

"I’m not saying you did a terrible job!" she says. "It’s probably just me being clumsy. I don’t know how I managed to get it clogged again."

He waits a second. He doesn’t want to go to her place. He’s free today. He meant to take Castiel to the cinema today, just because he’s never been before. 

She makes a pitiful, embarrassed sound. "Look, I don’t even have to be there. I already called three other people and they told me to wait a month. It’s not like I don’t feel weird calling you. I could, um, ask my neighbor to let you in and deal with the sink? And leave the money next to the door. Would that be okay?" 

"No, no, it’s-" Sam shakes his head. A passing kid with a frisbee in his hand looks at him like he’s crazy. "It’s fine. There’s no need for that. Of course I can take a look." He’s got his backpack with him, and checks the inside. His emergency kit has a screwdriver and the essentials. It should do. This isn’t rocket science. 

He calls Castiel asking for a rain check on that movie date, and makes his way to her flat, with the dog in tow. "I hope it’s okay I brought her," Sam says, when they come in. "I thought it was better to come right away. I’m pretty packed the rest of the week."

"She’s so lovely. I get why you’d stay here for someone like her." She bows down to pet and hug her. God is happy with all the attention, wagging her tail. 

The drain doesn’t look tampered with. Sam feels ashamed for even having entertained the idea. 

"Thanks," she says. "I really owe you." She looks like she’s doing fine. Why did Sam think she was as hung up about this as he was? They were just on a few dates, a lot of people do that without going crazy over it. 

"It’s okay," Sam says. He scratches the back of his head. "I mean, I should apologize." He washes his hands and turns to her. "I kind of ghosted you."

"You were trying to let me down gently." She scratches the dog behind its ears. "I get it. I just wish-" She gets up, the dog whines, putting her paws on her black jeans. Sam tells her to stop it. 

"I get you not wanting to date me," she says. "But I thought you liked me. And I liked you. I could do with a friend." Then she huffs, crosses her arms in front of her chest. "God, listen to me. That’s pretty pathetic, isn’t it? I just liked you a lot, but I get it. Don’t worry."

"No, it’s not pathetic. I liked you too. I still like you."

"But…?"

Sam chews the inside of his mouth. "I’m just not in the right frame of mind for a relationship right now." 

He could have just said there was someone else, he thinks. But that would make him sound like he’d been cheating. 

"So we’re gonna ignore me begging for your friendship, huh?" She laughs, making him smile despite himself. "I really called you because of the drain, by the way. Just so you know."

He hikes up a corner of his mouth. Her embarrassment is a little endearing. 

"At least 90% of the reason," she says. 

"Hey, it’s really fine." 

She goes to get her money, but he refuses it. 

"I owed you." 

"You really didn’t." 

At the door, he thinks, he shouldn’t, but he says, "And I could do with a friend too." Not that he’d ever be able to not lie to her about who he is. But maybe not every friend needs to be the kind who truly knows you.

He pulls up his shoulders, feeling a little silly all of a sudden. 

"Yeah?" A glow spreads over her face until she beams at him. "Cool, maybe we could do - um, well not dinner." 

"Friends do dinner, too."

"Yeah, but maybe start with something less intense, like lunch?" 

"Sure. We can do lunch." He thinks about hugging her goodbye, but doesn’t know how to do it friend-like, so it ends up as an awkward pat on her shoulder. 

* * *

"I should seriously consider charging more." When Sam stretches out on the carpet his feet and hands touch the hard wooden floor. "I could work less hours."

Castiel is feeding a fat tabby that’s been with them for a week. She belongs to an old lady who had to go to the hospital. Who knows how long she’ll stay there. 

"You like the work. You like helping people." 

Sam curls his arm under his head and watches Castiel pour gelled meat into a bowl. "I do like the work, but I also like having time off." 

"I like when you have time off too," Castiel says. He puts the filled bowl down and puts the remainder of cat food in the fridge. The cat runs towards the food with furious speed. Castiel pets her before sitting down on the carpet cross-legged facing Sam. "It means I get to spend more time with you." 

It’s been like this for a few weeks now. They will say things like that to each other, nice things, and they both soak it up, without pursuing it further. There’s an innocence to it that Sam hasn’t felt since high school crushes. Another part of him knows there’s nothing innocent about his twisted feelings. He fears he might be corrupting an angel. It’s almost like being in love with a teenager. It doesn’t matter how pure your intentions are, the feeling itself make it icky and weird. 

Sam turns his head away, his face burning with shame. A full minute pass until he returns his gaze. Castiel is still looking at him. 

"If I worked less, we could hunt again." He doesn’t know why he says it. Nothing in him wants to hunt. 

Castiel’s brow furrows. "You think we should?" 

Someone knocks at the door. No one knocks at their door except for the postman once a month or so. Castiel gets up to answer. 

"Oh, I’m sorry. I’m looking for Sam. Isn’t this where he lives?"

Sam jumps up at the sound of her voice. He gently pushes Castiel aside, avoids looking at him. "Hey," he tells her, voice soft and apologetic "I wasn’t expecting you."

She pulls her head back a little, as if to take in more of the picture in front of her. 

"Your address was on your card. Is this a bad time?" She looks between them.

"No." Sam steps aside, lets her in. He closes the door behind her. 

A pause. 

"This is Castiel," Sam says. He feels a little dizzy. 

"I didn’t know you had a roommate," she says, surprised. 

Castiel remains silent. 

"Are you sure this is a good time?" She points back at the door. "I can come back another time."

"No, no," Sam says. "It’s fine." 

She takes in everything in the room. Sam tells her to sit down on the couch. "Wow, didn’t know you had a cat too. Quite the zoo in here."

"Yeah, it’s not permanent. It’s -" Sam throws Castiel a pleading look. 

"You are the woman Sam’s dated," Castiel says, matter of factly. He sits down on the floor again, never not studying her face. 

She laughs a little nervously. "Yeah, I guess." 

It sounds like he means it, when he says, "I’m happy we get to meet." 


	8. Chapter 8

"I didn’t think she would just turn up like that." 

They lie in the dark bedroom on top of the covers. It’s taken a while for Sam to find his speech again after she had left. 

Sam thinks of reaching out. He moves his hand but right before he touches Castiel, he turns on his side to face him. Sam’s hand snaps back. 

"I was merely a little surprised. I wasn’t aware you were still seeing her."

"We’re just friends."

Castiel looks at him skeptically. "She wishes you to be her partner."

"I don’t want to be with her though."

"You go out together," Castiel says

"As friends."

Castiel mulls this over for a moment. "She didn’t know I existed."

Sam waits a beat.

"I didn’t know how to explain you."

"I’m your 'roommate'."

Sam turns onto his back again, presses a hand against his brow.

"I’m sorry she said that."

"It was factual. It is true."

"No, it’s not."

"You did not correct her."

"I didn’t know what to say."

Are they fighting? Sam thinks: Is this seriously going to be the first fight they have since Castiel’s been back? 

"I couldn’t have said: _Hey, by the way, I live with an angel_."

"You could have told her you lived with a friend."

Maybe this would be less strange if they turned on the lights, if they didn’t talk lying so close together in the dark. 

Sam is angry with her for coming here, even though he knows it’s his own fault. 

"How often do you see her?" 

"Not often." 

"Sam," Castiel says, his voice heavy. He reaches for Sam’s arm, touches his elbow. "There was no need to lie about her to me." 

"I didn’t lie." 

"You lied by omission. When I asked about your days and how you spend them."

"I’m allowed to have a private life outside of you, you know." 

Sam wants to eat his words the second he speaks them. They come out harsh and not at all as factual as they sounded in his mind. 

Castiel gets out of the bed, deliberately slow, and walks outside the room. Sam hears paws tapping over the floor, God following her favorite person to cheer them up. 

Sam feels very alone. He forces himself to think of Dean. Blood-soaked and dying, again and again. 

* * *

He asks her to meet him the following Sunday morning. They buy coffee from a Donut place; they walk through the park. A public place seemed best. 

She puts her hand into her bag of doughnut holes. Her fingers come out dusted in white, as she shovels the fried dough into her mouth.

"I shouldn’t have just turned up unannounced," she says, after she’s finished chewing. 

"It was fine, don’t worry." 

The glance she gives him makes it obvious she knows it’s not true. "Castiel seemed nice."

The air is crisp, a little wind rustles the trees.

"Where did you two meet?"

Sam shoves his free hand deep inside the pocket of his jacket. 

"He was my brother’s best friend. Cas helped him out when he was in a really tight spot." Sam hikes up his shoulders to his ears. "He’s helped me out a lot, too. Don’t know what I’d have done without him."

_Or where I’d be without him now._

She holds the grease-spotted paper bag out to him; he shakes his head. He takes a swig of his coffee instead.

"Whenever you mentioned your brother before," she says. "Is he…?"

"He’s gone."

"I’m so sorry." 

"Thanks."

If she hugged him now, he would let her. If she offered hope, he would take it. 

"So you and Castiel - You’ve been helping each other out? With the grief, I mean? Mourning together?"

Sam has to take small steps so they can walk at the same pace. 

Dean is not dead, he wants to explain. Just good as, banished to a place in between. Castiel says it’s not as bad as hell.

She takes out the last donut hole, and chews on it while watching his face. "Sorry if I brought up bad memories."

"It’s okay. It’s not like I don’t think of him anyway."

"It’s just." She scrunches up the paper, translucent from the oil in some corners, puts it inside her empty coffee cup and throws both into the nearest trash can. "I noticed there’s only one bedroom."

Sam feels his cheeks heating. "Sorry," he says for reasons he can’t quite pick out. 

She licks some icing sugar from her index finger, then looks back up at him: "I’m not a bigot. I’m happy for you."

"It’s not like that."

"Why not?" She blinks. "Come on, don’t lie to me. I was the other woman after all." 

Sam looks everywhere but her face for a while. "It’s complicated." 

"Is it really?" She looks up at him soft and with stern kindness, like a mother would look at her child. 

"Aren’t you angry with me? Why would you want to hear this?"

"Cause I’m a sucker for unlikely love stories? Cause you ditching me for him makes this a tiny little bit more romantic than just you not being into me?"

She gets him to put on something vaguely akin to a smile. 

"So basically you owe this to me," she says. 

"You think so?"

"Yeah. Besides it’s gonna help me not try to seduce you with all my charms again. Knowing you’re head over heels for some cute awkward guy who looks at you like you’re the biggest wonder in the world."

Sam feels the blood rushing to his face. "He doesn’t look at me like that."

She wiggles her finger at him. "Ah, so you don’t deny the part where you’re head over heels for him?"

"Jesus," Sam grunts and runs a hand down his face. He’s honestly a little annoyed by how strong she comes on. But another part of him appreciates her pushing too. "When I said it’s complicated - I meant it."

"Well, then tell me about it." She nods down the path. "I could do with another coffee." 

Hours later, when he stands before the house, the dark surrounding him, the only light coming from inside - he feels the dull ache of knowing yourself in ways you hadn’t before. The impossibility to head back is intoxicating and nerve-wrecking at once. 

He tells Castiel he grabbed something to eat outside, even though he already texted him earlier to let him know. Sam asks if he’s walked and fed the dog. 

"Of course." Castiel leans against the door frame to the main room, while Sam takes off his jacket. "Did you have an enjoyable day?" 

"I guess I did have a nice day, yeah," Sam says after thinking about it in earnest. "Surprisingly good, actually."

Castiel nods. He visibly hesitates before he says, "The animals have missed you."

As if called, God comes running out of the room into the hallway. Sam bends down and ruffles her fur. He kisses her on the spot above her snout, right between the eyes. 

"Yeah," Sam says. "I’ve really missed them too." 


	9. Chapter 9

It’s probably not the driver’s fault, but Sam can’t help it: He feels a desire for vengeance stronger than he has in a long time. 

"I shouldn’t have let her slip outside," Castiel says. "I looked for her for hours and then - I tried to heal her but it wouldn’t work. She was already dead when I found her! Just left on the side of the street. Right outside!"

Castiel sits with the dead animal on the floor. The corpse lies wrapped in one of Sam’s sweatshirts. The dog is in their bedroom, scratching against the door. 

Images flash inside Sam’s mind, of hunting the driver down. 

Castiel’s eyes are big and glassy. "How am I going to explain this to her owners? I’m horrible at this job. And she trusted me. They trusted me." 

There’s little else he can say but repeat: "It’s not your fault, Cas." 

Sam takes some treats out of the cupboard and goes to calm down God. She’s very upset, and wants to go to Castiel, but Sam doesn’t know what she’d do with the dead cat. She’d probably just sniff the cadaver, but even that would be upsetting. 

Sam calls the family of the owner. If anything they sound relieved; they won’t have to pay for someone taking care of the cat anymore. They ask Sam to dispose of the corpse.

"Should we bury her?" Sam asks. 

Castiel takes her up in her arms. "In the backyard?" 

"Yeah, let’s go and bury her in the backyard."

He puts an arm around Castiel’s shoulder and leads him outside, the sweatshirt pressed to Castiel’s chest. 

Sam does the digging. It’s a shallow grave but he still has to get the shovel out of the Impala. They put the blanket down, and shove the black soil over it, until the hole is covered.

"I know you might think it’s just a cat," Castiel says, as Sam comes to stand next to him. They look at the make-shift grave. 

"No, I get it." 

"No." Castiel shakes his head. He seems surprised by the tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. 

Sam puts his arm back around Castiel’s shoulder. 

It’s so jarring to see him so disheveled. They stand so close he can feel his body tremble. "It’s not just the cat. It’s bigger than that."

Sam keeps stroking down Castiel’s arm. "What do you mean?" 

Castiel turns around, until Sam is virtually holding him in his arms. Castiel’s fingers find his shoulders. His eyes are red. "I couldn’t save a simple cat. I promised I would and I couldn’t. I lost her. I always lose them."

"No, Cas, that’s not the same at all. It’s-" 

"I want to atone," Castiel says, clinging to him, digging his fingers deep into Sam’s shoulders. "I want to atone for everything I’ve done. For all the dead angels, for the souls, for Dean."

"I get it," Sam says. 

"Do you?" 

Sam hugs him then, holds him close. His chin rests on Castiel’s shoulder. 

It’s little more than a whisper when Castiel says: "I want Dean back.“ 

"Me too," Sam says, Castiel’s hair brushing his cheek. "God, me too."

Castiel starts crying. It’s a foreign sound to Sam’s ears. Even Castiel seems surprised and not really sure how to do it. His back is heaving, he’s hiccupping and tears spill out of his eyes almost sporadically. 

Sam holds on, but Castiel draws back. 

"It will be okay," Sam says, lamely. How can it be true. They both know they are stuck in this forever. Either a miracle will happen and Dean will return, or they will stay like this. Never quite whole again. 

Sam presses his lips to Castiel’s forehead, the way a parent might kiss a child. "It will be okay." If repetition ever made something more true and trustworthy, it might now too. 

"Were they angry?" Castiel asks. "When you called them?"

Sam blinks until he understands, and shakes his head. "No, they weren’t. No one’s angry with you, Cas." 

He doesn’t tell him that they sounded relieved. 

They disentangle. It starts to rain. Sam thinks the grey skies and the black clouds are only fitting a funeral. The rain drops grow in size, and Sam hopes the grave isn’t too shallow. He envisions the ground turning into mud, a cadaver reaching out from between worms and roots. 

Wordlessly Castiel’s hand slips into his. They stay standing over the unmarked grave and for the briefest second Sam remembers other moments in his life when he stood over graves. Salting and burning. The countless bodies and skeletons. 

It’s Castiel who starts tugging on his hand. "Maybe we should move back inside."

Sam startles, turns to face him. Castiel’s hair is heavy with rain, slick down his skull. "Yeah, let’s go inside.“

Hand in hand they walk around to the front of the house. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees an elderly lady on the other side of the street watching them. 

Inside, God wants their attention. She’s running circles around the both of them. "She knows that something is wrong," Castiel says. 

"I’m gonna walk her real quick," Sam says, half expecting Castiel to disagree. He doesn’t. Maybe he wants to be alone for a bit. 

Outside, the same elderly lady stands unmoved. Her white hair is puffy from the rain, that’s only now starting to slow down a bit. "Everything okay?" Sam asks, uncomfortable being watched so intently. 

He pays close attention. He smells for sulfur, but only the scent of wet pavement lies heavy in the air. If her eyes turn black, he could do nothing. He’s carrying no weapons beside a measly knife in his jacket. "Exorcizamus te," he whispers, "omnis immundus spiritus."

She doesn’t need to shout. Even though she’s on the other side of the road, her voice is clear, calm. "This used to be a good neighborhood." Judging by the rundown houses, this hasn’t been a good neighborhood in decades. "And now there’s folks like you." She stares at him, maybe daring him to speak back. She’s just a homophobic old lady, no threat. Sam laughs, almost giddy with relief. He starts walking again, God running circles around him. On his way back, the woman is gone. 

He feeds the dog before he gets out of his wet and muddy shoes. He’s already peeled his shirt off, when he walks into the bedroom. 

Castiel lies curled up on top of the bed. His eyes follow Sam to the drawer, where he gets out of his jeans and T-Shirt and socks. Something keeps him from going to the bathroom to fetch a towel. He uses his T-Shirt to rub over his hair. 

He joins Castiel on the bed, faces him. The side of his body turned upwards is cold as ice. He can feel the hard numbness move from his skin into his kidneys. It would be wise to get under the covers or get dressed.

"How are you holding up?" Sam asks. He touches Castiel’s elbow with his index finger. 

Castiel’s eyes search Sam’s face. He doesn’t answer. 

The rain clacks against the metal window ledge outside. 

Sam struggles to think of something wise to say about the loss of life, about melancholy and failure. He wants Castiel to feel better and at the same time there’s a thrum of excitement in seeing him like this: raw and open and in need. Sam knows there’s something wrong with him. Unity in death should not excite him. He’s starting to draw away, moves one foot towards the edge of the bed. 

He halts when Castiel grabs both of his arms to pull him closer. 

Castiel presses his lips to Sam’s. They’re wet and a little cold. But his hand is warm; it’s a shock to Sam’s system when it comes to rest on his freezing side, over his hip bone. The hand sticks to Sam’s skin like plastic to a hot plate. 


	10. Chapter 10

They do not talk about it. 

The next day, Sam walks God around sunrise and goes to work soon after. He doesn't come straight home either, dawdling through the park nearby for almost an hour. When he passes the same tree for the third time, it starts feeling silly. He's not going to be able to ignore Castiel all day. 

It turns out that he's been overthinking this. Castiel is acting like always. Nothing but a kiss between friends caused by overstimulation and loneliness. 

They spend the evening watching some crime noir movie. Sam lets Castiel choose most of the movies and TV shows they watch. Maybe it's residue from living with Dean for so long - it overwhelms Sam a little to be so completely free in his choices. It's nice to have someone else make them for you in some inconsequential areas.

Sam is sitting on the couch. Castiel sits in front of him on the ground. When his shoulder bumps against Sam's leg, it reminds him of last night. Of the urge he'd felt to prolong the kiss, to draw Castiel in closer. 

Sam swallows hard, pulls his leg away. "Have you eaten?" he asks. 

Castiel shakes his head. "Not yet."

Sam looks at the watch. It's almost ten. He gets up, happy to have more physical distance between them, but frustrated with himself. He gets one of the two metal pots out of the cupboard, fills it with water. He eyeballs the salt. The stove is old, and of the four plates only one and a half work. He waits in silence until the water boils. 

It isn't right, he thinks. Pasta, movies on a tiny old-school TV, only each other as company. This isn't right for Castiel. 

He breaks the dry spaghetti into two and dumps them into the boiling water. The hot steam reddens his palms. 

He's trying to think of a way to say it. He's not rejecting Castiel; he's trying to set him free. Maybe he can't return to heaven, but that doesn’t mean there is no other place for him. Castiel is centuries old. He must have friends or allies still, somewhere. People who can actually help him. 

And Sam, he needs to be somewhere else too. 

He drains the spaghetti in a chipped metal colander, pours a package of prepared marinara sauce into the still warm pot and stirs. 

Who has he been trying to kid with this sad attempt of normalcy?

At least the cats are already gone. 

Some motels allow dogs, and if necessary the Impala would do. God likes driving in the car; she puts her paws to the window and watches the world outside pass by. 

Sam puts two filled ceramic bowls onto the table. 

All through the meal he is gathering strength by not speaking. Castiel doesn’t try to either. He just watches Sam with careful eyes. 

They carry the empty bowls to the sink, and Sam says: "What is your plan, Cas?"

"My plan for what?" 

Sam turns the water on too hot. His fingers flit away from the stream. He turns the tap off, leaves the dirty bowls to soak in the soapy liquid and turns his body towards Castiel. 

Castiel is wearing blue fitted jeans and warm woolen socks - the floor boards are always cold, and Sam has felt how icy his feet get at night. Castiel only ever wears the same three shirts and monochrome sweaters they bought in a second hand shop. He doesn’t have any other clothes. He’s stopped wearing Sam’s. Although Sam has asked him to stop, it still makes him feel a little pang of regret not to see him in his oversized clothes anymore. 

"Are you asking me for my plans for tonight? For tomorrow?"

Sam picks up the kitchen towel, squeezes it into a ball and throws it down onto the counter, where it unfolds again inch by inch. 

"No. I’m asking in general. What are you gonna do, Cas?" 

"I don’t understand."

"I mean: What are we doing here? What have we been doing here for the past months?"

Castiel looks at him for a long time, before he slowly and with the utmost sincerity says: "We've been living."

Sam breaks eye contact. 

"Are you asking me to leave?" 

Sam looks up. "I’m asking you to do what’s right. You’re supposed to be looking for your grace, finding out why you’re back. And I’m supposed to be looking for Dean."

"Sam," Castiel says quietly. "If you have an idea how to do any of these things, you know I would do them." 

Sam breathes out a heavy sigh. 

Understanding dawns on Castiel. "But you don’t want us to do these things together?" 

"I just think we’re keeping each other immobile."

Castiel takes a step back. He studies Sam. He gives him plenty of time to soften his words, but Sam can’t. 

Then with a detached, almost robotic voice Castiel says: "Our lease runs until the end of this month. I suppose, I could leave earlier if you-"

"No. No, of course not. You don’t need to do that."

"Okay." Castiel nods, knits his eyebrows. He looks confused. 

"Cas, I -"

"No," Castiel shakes his head. "You don’t have to explain yourself to me." He throws a look at the dish water. Half of the bubbles have disappeared. "Thank you for dinner." 

Castiel walks out. 

Sam feels horrible. He wishes he’d found better words, but at least he got the message across. This might hurt right now, but in the long run, it’s the right thing to do 

Later in the bedroom, Castiel stands with his back against the wall and asks, "Do you want me to sleep on the couch?"

"What, no. Of course not, why?" 

"I would not want to make you uncomfortable."

"No, Cas." Sam touches Castiel’s arm. They both look down at where their bodies connect. "You don’t make me uncomfortable at all."

"You just want me gone."

"I don’t want you gone. I just don’t want you to waste yourself on… this." 

"Waste myself?" Castiel steps so close, their faces are almost touching. "What exactly do you think I am going to do on my own? I have no powers, I’m weak. I’m useless, Sam. I cannot help anyone or do anything the way I am right now. I thought at least I was helping you cope the way you were helping me. But I see now that I was mistaken." 

* * *

They're walking God together. They haven't done that in weeks for obvious reasons. Walking together means talking to each other. 

Castiel says he's bought a bus ticket to the nearest bigger city. Asked what he's planning to do there, he says that it seems likelier he will find work and accommodation there. 

That's not what Sam meant. "What are you going to do once you’re there?" 

"I told you, I plan on moving to a bigger city in hope of finding a place and a job."

"But your ultimate plan has to be something more than this," Sam argues.

Castiel glares. "You were my plan," he says. "I don't have any other as of now." 

Sam turns his gaze to the ground. "There's got to be someone you know somewhere."

"I know you," Castiel says. "And I know Dean. Everyone else I knew would rather see me dead."

"There's got to be someone, some place you can be safe and find your-"

"No!" 

In the past months, Castiel has become so mild-mannered and agreeable. Now, his face reminds Sam of the wild anger and mania that had taken hold of him before he went to purgatory. A whiff of the leviathans-overtaken-angel in his eyes, asking Sam to bow down to him. It’s gone as quickly as it came.

"You still have a week," Sam says softly. "Maybe we can think of something together." He bends down to disentangle a small twig from God's mane. Then they continue walking down the almost deserted street. 

"I still don't understand," Castiel says, not giving up. "Why did you change your mind? You seemed content."

The dog has noticed a sparrow up in the tree on the other side of the road, her ears are pricked up. Knowing she will try to run off, Sam tightens his grip on the leash. 

"This just isn't us," he says after a much too long pause. 

"I think it is me," Castiel answers after an equally long moment of silence. 

"It’s not me then," Sam says. "It just doesn't feel right not to keep trying, not to... You know. All the things I tried to get Dean back when he died. Over and over. Just because I’m more comfortable now is not a good reason to not keep trying."

"If this is only about finding Dean, why don't you want me to be with you? We’re much more likely to succeed together." 

It breaks Sam's heart to stay silent. 

"I won't be offended," Castiel says. "But I think I deserve to know. Do you think I would hinder you? You seemed happy to have me back."

Castiel seems standoffish and sleek now. Like the old angel he once was. But Sam thinks it must be a facade. He must be hurting even though it doesn’t show on his face. Sam is hurting too. 

"You make me weak," Sam says. 

"Weak," Castiel repeats in disbelief, as if he has trouble conceptualizing the word. 

Sam thinks they should head back home. He turns around and then back again, confusing the dog a little. But it doesn't take long until she is running ahead of them again. 

They don't speak after that. Castiel stiffens next to him. Sam can feel it, the coating of tension over everything and the air of detachment between them. When they arrive, Castiel bends down to free God of her collar, and pets her snout. 

Sam's plan is not very sophisticated. He's going to try and find Crowley. If someone knows anything, it will be him. Of course, he's tried to find him before too. Sam’s killed so many demons, had his hand at so many throats to get to him - but maybe just not enough yet. Maybe if he'd never had this short pitstop of domestic life, he'd have found Dean by now. 

"What are you doing?" Sam asks, when Castiel gathers the throw and his pillow from the bed. 

"I'm going to sleep on the couch," he says. "In the morning, I will be gone."

"What? Why?" 

"Because I'm not wanted here. And I'm sorry I did not understand the magnitude before - how much I’m keeping you from the life you want to lead. My understanding of human communication must still be lacking."

He pushes past Sam and into the other room. 

The lights are turned off. There's only Castiel's silhouette against the window, as he fluffs the sad excuse for a blanket. 

"This is stupid," Sam tells him, as he steps into the room. "At least take the bed. I can sleep on the couch if you don't want to share."

"No." Castiel lies on his back, his knees hiked up almost to his chest. The pillow is too big and he holds his neck in a way that looks unsafe. 

"Cas..."

"No." Castiel is angry. He sits up. The pillow falls over the back of the couch and onto the ground. "No, Sam. You cannot tell me you want me gone - You cannot tell me I make you weak, and you wish me gone, and then expect me to wait the assorted two weeks until I disappear from your life. This -" He puts his palm over his chest. "This hurts." He sounds surprised, as if he's talking about an unexpected physical sensation. 

"I never said I wanted you gone. I just think it's best for the both of us -"

"I never agreed with your assessment," Castiel says. "It is not good for me." He looks at Sam with wide eyes. "I wish to be with you, Sam," he says. "I want to stay with you, no matter where you're going or what kind of life you are planning to lead. I am willing to endanger myself to find Dean, if that is what you want to do." He pauses, lets his gaze wander through the room. He is calm now. "I respect your decision to leave. I understand you think you will thrive without me. But I need you to know the same is not true for me. I don't want to be alone."

Sam places his right hand over his left, starts kneading the soft part of his palm and tendons. 

"You'll meet other people. There will be other people. You'll find them, and -" His voice peters out. 

"I don't want other people. I want you."

Sam can hear his own blood pound inside his ears. 

The thing about wrong decisions is that they're never as clear as they are in retrospect.

Sam does feel doubt. But it stems from desire. He still knows, he is still certain, that he is not good for Castiel. 

"If you need help, you can always call me," Sam says. "And I can sort things out from where I am. I'm not abandoning you, I'm trying to help you."

"It would help me if you treated me with honesty." Castiel takes the blanket in his hand and throws it towards the end of the bed, where it slides off and onto the ground. "What did I do wrong?"

"You didn't do anything wrong," Sam says. "This is about me. I have to find Dean."

"He wanted you to go on living."

Sam shakes his head. "I know Dean. He would want me to go on, if there’s no way to save him. After I’ve tried everything. But he’s not dead - we know where he is. You can't tell me that we've already tried everything to get him back."

Castiel breathes out heavily. "I told you, if you have an idea of what we could do, I am more than willing to assist you. Don't look at me like I'm not thinking of Dean every day. I left him there. I see him with blood and dirt on his face when I go to sleep and dream - this horrible human habit of reliving the things I most try to forget during the day. I want to find a way to get Dean back at least as much as you do. I owe him that and so much more. But all I can think of are things he would not approve of. And what good would it be to bring him back and have him ostracize me."

"That's selfish," Sam says, as if the same thoughts hadn't crossed his mind. 

"Yes. It is selfish. But I could not stand losing him and you both." Castiel looks down and lays his hands flat onto his thighs. "Not that it makes much difference, now you're sending me away."

Sam waits a beat before he takes his steps towards the couch. He sits down, and tries to collect his thoughts, and subtract those that are not going to be of help. He wonders how to dress up the truth to make it more palatable. He is trying to do the right thing. 

"Once Dean is back-"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Castiel cuts in. "You will either take forever looking for him and end in despair, just like you were when I first found you. Or you will come across another lost soul, someone you'd prefer to settle down with."

"This is for your own good," Sam says, as if repeating it would make it more true. As if echoing the same sentences his father used to tell him - the ones he despised and mistrusted - would ever change someone's mind. He’s trying to convince himself of their truth, but they taste shallow on his tongue. 

"Did you not teach me about free will?" Castiel asks. 

Free will is an illusion, Sam knows. If there was such a thing, his life would not center around Dean, forever and ever, even when his brother is not even here. If free will was real, Sam would have liberated himself from this life long ago. (Maybe, this should teach him something about the futility of running away.) 

"What are you getting at?" Sam asks back. 

"You think me staying with you is a bad idea, and I disagree. But ultimately everything I do is my own choice, is that not correct? You can leave, Sam. Feel free to make the choices you need to make for yourself, but don't pin them on me." 

Sam puts his elbows onto his thighs. "We can't stay here anyway," he says. He is long out of arguments, if there ever were any. "The lease is already up." He stands. He doesn't look back, when he stops before the threshold. "I'm sorry, Cas. I really am." 

Inside their room, God is sleeping at the end of the bed, keeping him company. 

Sam spends most of the night forcing himself to think of his next steps. He could try summoning Crowley again, if he can't reach him any other way. Maybe this time it will work. 

The next morning, as promised, Castiel is gone. 


	11. Chapter 11

Sam doesn't stay any longer. He packs his bag with only a few of his clothes and the essentials for the dog. He leaves the rest of their life behind: The old receipts they kept in the ceramic bowl near the door for no discernible reason. Castiel's tentatively started collection of second hand novels stacked on the wooden shelf. The checkered woolen throw on the couch, still infused with Castiel’s scent. He leaves it all. Everything that would make it harder than it needs to be. 

Sam is trying to forget. He knows, with time, any life lived will seem distant and dream-like, will cease to exist as anything but a once potential reality. 

Already now, when he turns the key in the door for the last time, he can feel it ending. God's tail is wagging against his thigh; she thinks they're only going for a quick walk. Sam puts the keys into the post box. Already now, everything seems far gone. Like he'd last seen Castiel months ago. As if their knees had not touched on the couch last night. As if they had never kissed while Castiel cried over a dead animal whose name Sam can’t recall. He berates himself for ever letting hope into his heart, for ever daydreaming that this could last. 

Before he starts the car, when the door isn't even fully closed yet, he takes out his phone and calls the last number of Crowley he has. He knows what Crowley did is unforgivable. But the same is true for Castiel - and Sam had forgiven him even while he was still doing it. Not that he's planning to forgive Crowley. This is merely about usefulness. 

Of course, the King of Hell doesn't answer his cell. 

The only thing he can do now is drive. Drive and try not to think of where Castiel is. 

He has to make more stops than he wants on account of the dog. He buys her a big carton of dry kibble, knowing she prefers her food wet. 

At night, the first motel they find doesn't allow dogs. The second does. 

Sam lies on the red bedsheet, his head hanging a little over the frame. God is asleep. Sam clutches his phone to his chest. There is no good reason for calling Dean’s old numbers besides hearing his voice telling him to leave a message. Sam remembers that he stopped charging the phones some time ago. He would not even get a prerecorded message. 

He’s considered calling Castiel from the moment he’s woken up, all the 10 hours in the car, up to now. He could be anywhere. 

Castiel would accept an apology, he thinks, if he took everything back. But Sam still feels it’s true: Castiel is better off without him.

The next morning, he wakes up with the smell of stale cigarette smoke in his nose. He's not alone; there's a sleeping dog on the floor, proving that he didn't dream up the last months. 

An alien tinny sound drills into his ears. The walls are paper thin. In the room next to his, someone is blow-drying their hair. 

If he just keeps driving, he'll outrun the feeling of needing to turn back. He's fine with the emptiness inside; it’s how it's supposed to be when Dean is gone. He's supposed to be lost and on his own, to make up for failing Dean. For the betrayal. Not that Castiel was anything like Ruby, of course. Not that Castiel was anything like Jessica and Stanford. 

If he keeps on driving, if he leaves behind enough states, at some point it won't feel like he's sent Castiel away to his demise. Sam’s feelings are simply lagging behind what he knows to be true. 

Castiel is smart and capable and his plea to stay with Sam was born out of loneliness. People take a shine to Castiel. He will find companionship, Sam is sure. 

And if the thought of Castiel being fine and happy, setting up a new life with other people or angels or whatever else there is - if that thought hurts even more than the alternative, then so be it. Sam has never claimed to be a saint. 

If Sam just drives far enough, if he sleeps in enough rotten motel rooms, if he kills enough demons, if he drinks just enough to numb the pain but not too much to lose his drive - he will find his self-reliance along the way, 

He doesn't know if there is any hope of finding Dean. The point is to keep trying anyway. He’d be okay with dying on the job - it's the only acceptable death as long as Dean isn't here. 

It’s all just droplets of penance on the hot stone that is Sam’s guilt, but it is all that he has got. 

* * *

It takes him three weeks to find Crowley. When he does, he's surprised by how little time has passed, how relatively easy it was. How far undisturbed determination can get you. 

He keeps God in the backseat of the Impala. He strokes through her sticky fur a few times before he goes out into a room full of demons. He's armed, but he's not here to fight. It would be futile. If he died - well, he'd feel terrible for the dog. He opens the window so she won't suffocate or overheat. Someone would find her and take care of her. 

Crowley gives him a quick up and down, lounging on a throne that looks like it's made out of papier-mâché. It’s a child's idea of kingdom. 

They have never liked each other much. There's no pleasantries. 

"You know why I'm here."

"I expected you earlier." Crowley knows where to aim. "I thought you'd be more eager to find out where your brother disappeared to, considering your insane co-dependency issues."

"I already know where he is." Maybe it would be wise to make up a reason for why he does. But Sam doesn't care. It's worth seeing the surprise on Crowley’s face. "I want to know how to get him out of there."

"You can't. It's impossible to get out of purgatory."

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

The demons next to the throne look ready to fight. They twitch in their cheap black suits, their hands on their weapons. 

"You're lying," Sam repeats. "I know people have come back."

"Well, I guess, if God felt like it, anything’s possible." Crowley shrugs. "Although personally I wouldn’t count on him - I certainly haven’t seen him around the past centuries."

"I know that people come back! He-" Sam stops himself and forces his shoulders to relax. 

Crowley grins and crosses his legs. Theatrically he tips his index finger against his chin. "Ah, yes, but see: angels aren't the same as humans."

"Did you bring Castiel back?"

"Me?" Crowley laughs. "Why would I want this back-stabbing waste of feathers back on earth? I liked knowing where he was, and knowing he couldn't destroy all my plans again. I got a reputation to uphold."

"Who brought him back then?" Sam's eyes glide over the demons, who all seem a little uncomfortable. 

"How the hell should I know? Not that I bleeding care. Although I guess I am curious-" He shifts on his throne. "Why isn't he with you now? Trouble in paradise?"

Sam's jaw sets painfully. 

Crowley gets up from his chair, walks circles around Sam before picking up a goblet of what Sam hopes to be red wine. "Oh, you thought I didn't know he was staying with you? I gotta admit, the first time I heard about you two, I was skeptical. Thought it must be a joke. It just sounded too bizarre to be true." He looks at Sam straight, trying to provoke him. "See, I always thought your crazy-winged friend’s type was more of the angry, rugged, green-eyed, handsome and bow-legged variety - no offense, Moose."

Sam tries to show no emotion, but he knows the forced tightness in his cheeks is obvious. His neutrality nothing but a facade. 

"Was it a kind of foxhole situation?" Crowley asks. "You guys cuddling up together, crying over Dean? One thing leads to another, and so on." He stares at Sam. "Although I could also see our little angel getting the wrong end of the stick. Is he still coo-coo? He was all over the place the last time we spoke. So what was going on there? Were you trying to get him well enough to be on his own, before you set out on your mission?" Crowley moves his head from side to side, as if deep in thought. "Or were there actual emotions involved? That would be even more hilarious. Please do tell." 

"What do you want, Crowley?" 

"Me? I’m not the one who came here begging for information." Crowley looks up into the air; the seconds pass. "Do you want to know how to get Dean out of purgatory or how to get your lover back?"

Sam’s heart skips a beat. "You know where Castiel is?" 

"Of course." Crowley crosses his arms in front of his chest. "But what do I get out of telling you?" 

"I don't need to know where he is. I want to know how to get to Dean."

"Can't help you there." Crowley looks almost genuinely sorry. 

Of course, Sam doesn't let go so easily. But there comes a point, where even if he's still not sure if Crowley is telling the truth, there is nothing he can think of doing that would help the situation. 

Outside, in the car there's tail-wagging and hand-licking, and Sam stares ahead. 

He had not planned further than this. He had been so sure that the next steps would be obvious once he'd found Crowley. 

He tries to call Castiel. He has new information about Dean - that there are no news. But it's something concrete, something Castiel deserves to know that has nothing to do with the thing between them. He leaves a message. At the end of which he says he hopes Castiel is doing fine. He hangs up before he can say more. 

He looks back at the building. If Castiel had been with him, he would not have been able to enter thanks to the angel proofing on the sides. 

He considers walking in again. Demanding to know where Castiel is after all. There had been something strange in Crowley's voice when he'd offered up the information, that had sounded serious. But he’d been trying to play Sam, get a rise out of him. 

Sam decides the worrying is but a pathetic attempt to find a good reason to see Castiel again. 

He turns the key in the ignition. The radio station is playing REO Speedwagon. He moves the knob until he finds unfamiliar rock sounds set to a melancholic female voice. He turns it up. It feels strangely rebellious to blast soft indie rock. 

This is his car now. He should not feel ashamed for his music choices. 

He lowers the window. He needs to stop somewhere to get wet dog food in single portions, so the car won't start to stink anymore than having a grown man and a shedding dog in there 24/7 does anyway. 

He gets a plastic-wrapped salad and a sports drink at the gas station, and consumes both in the driver’s seat while scrolling through newspapers on his iPad. Looking for cases is like riding a bicycle. It only feels strange and wobbly for a second, then he's fully back in the saddle. 

There's a haunted house one town over. 

Two lone vampires mutilating cows (that's how he finds them), who are really inept at robbing a blood bank. 

Castiel never gets back to him.


	12. Chapter 12

A month passes. He starts getting used to this life. He does feel less lonely with God by his side. She doesn't seem to mind all the driving too much. 

One time her barking almost gets him killed, when it alerts a demon to their presence.

Sam asks about Dean and purgatory at every turn. He starts devouring lore again. And the longer he drives, the further away it all seems. 

He sees Castiel in his dreams. They eat together. They talk while they lie in bed and let the day pass them by. They watch TV surrounded by cats while Castiel's hand cradles his. They touch a lot - but the sex dreams are the easiest to deal with. The dreams of real memories are much worse. 

Sam feels the lack of warmth every morning. 

He used to have nightmares of hell that he felt more comfortable waking up from. 

But he gets used to all of it. 

Another month passes. His life consists of driving, killing, eating the bare minimum. At first, he tries not to get drunk when he still has to drive. Then he learns to be a better drunk driver. 

In stories, there's always a direction you are heading to. Dean's mind works in stories. Of direct routes and redemption, of clear lines between good and bad. After death and destruction, there is only getting back to what once was, or finding new grounds. 

Sam is doing neither. He just drifts. 

He leaves Castiel drunk voicemails and text messages. The latter are worse, because he can re-read them to himself in a sober state the next morning. 

He tells him God misses him. 

He tells him he himself misses him. 

He tells him he loves him. 

But never does he take back what he said, never does he ask Castiel to come back to him. And drunken, slumped over the car, he knows it all too well - he would have been a disaster for Castiel sooner or later anyway, as he’d always turned out to be for everyone in the end.   
  
The first drop of blood is an accident. It's not even a demon; it doesn't do anything physical to him. He shoves the thing off his body, wipes the red from his mouth and rinses with water until he can’t taste the iron on his teeth anymore. 

But it’s what makes him start thinking about it again. 

Dean would hate him. But Dean would not have to know. Sam would stop once Dean turned up again. It’s a purely logical deduction. He'd use it to get what he needed. If only he were stronger, he would find a way. 

So he gets stronger. 

He's doing it the smart way. He finds methodologies to it, it’s clinical and precise. There’s no demon pushing him, there’s no raw passion and no mind games; it’s a rational thing. He even gets a little notebook. 

He tries to understand how it works. If he kills the demon and then drinks the dead vessel’s after-the-fact, how is the blood still demonic? It must be, because he’s pretty sure he can taste the difference. The sulfuric aftertaste it leaves. 

It always makes him horny. He doesn't know if it's conditional. If he’s experiencing a pavlovian reaction thanks to Ruby, or if it's inherently physical. It doesn’t matter. He never acts on it. 

He is able to save people and exorcize without hurting the vessels again. He can’t remember why he ever stopped. Not that he's doing this for the greater good - but there's a small part of him that still thinks: this is right. How is him turning a tiny bit less human worse than letting innocent people die? He's rotten to the core anyway. What difference does a little more demonic blood do now. 

He's able to move things with his mind again. 

He tells himself it's fine. It will help him. 

He stops counting the demons he kills, quantifying the blood he drinks. 

The questions become rhetorical, a routine he goes through without second thought. He does not expect anyone to know how to get to Dean. 

Even tortured, people don't know. 

He never asks about Castiel. 

Castiel is part of a distant world of the past. A time when he was human enough to entertain the notion of happiness. 

It does not turn him evil. More withdrawn and single-minded maybe, but not evil. 

If there wasn't the increase in strength, it would be just like any other drug. The initial high, the come downs, the pervasive need. 

It rules his life, but it's not unwelcome. It gives him something to do and take care of besides a dog. 

He doesn't feel the pull of hell. No one approaches him about reclaiming a title he's never wanted in the first place. 

He thinks of finding Crowley again. Making sure that he didn't lie, that he doesn't know more about purgatory than he's already told him. But it seems too risky. Crowley will have heard of the state he is in, he might understand it as an affront. And now that Sam is feeling capable and strong again, he does not want to die. Not now. Why die, as long as there is so much evil. How selfish would it be to go now. If death is what he wants, it’s not what he deserves. That’s been a good rule of thumb for a while. 

Besides, he thinks, when he can almost hear the demonic blood swoosh and swirl around inside his stomach, surely he would not go to heaven now. Surely, he would return to hell. (Of course, it would be different without Lucifer - but Sam does not want to imagine any of it.) 

He still feels lonely, but oddly the demons he talks to help, even when he kills them afterwards. And then there's God. And then there's the phone calls and messages. 

He doesn't know what day it is, he barely remembers the month. He keeps the blood in a flask in his back pocket. If it's not too much, if he sips it throughout the day, it doesn't give him a high. It just makes him feel better, like things aren't completely hopeless. It gives him a routine, something tangible to hold onto. 

He stops the car on the narrow street. On both sides there's corn fields as far as he can see. He opens the door for God, who jumps outside and runs into the field. She always returns. He can hear her shuffling through the stalks of corn, the rustling of her canine body against the plants calm him. 

He takes a swig out of the flask. It must have been Dean's, but Sam can't remember for sure. He’s never had his own flask before. He only ever drank heavily in crisis. A flask is for alcoholics, a flask is for people in despair. 

He takes out his phone. He's not called anyone else. It's an automatism. The need to hear himself talk. As if there was a friend on the other line. 

He waits until the mailbox starts.

He braces himself, one arm wrapped around himself and the hand pressed under his armpit. 

"Cas," he says into the nothingness. There are no other cars here, there's nothing but the sound of dog peeing a little further off. "I hope you're doing okay."

There's a pause as if he thinks someone might pick up after all. 

"Today was pretty crazy. There were at least four times today where I thought: that's it, you know? But in the end I left a warehouse full of - well, I didn't get to save all of them today."

It's a cheap substitute for a diary. Just the ramblings of some addict. Just - 

He takes another swig. The flask is light in his hand. He should have sapped some today. He's probably not going to meet another demon tonight. There's got to be a place somewhere he can reach tomorrow, a meeting point, maybe a bar. And if not, surely he can wait another day. It hits much harder when you're desperate anyway. 

"Are you still looking for Dean?" 

He whispers for the benefit of no one.

God is chasing mice in the fields. She never catches any. She is much too slow. Sam is grateful for that. He'd not want to dispose of more dead bodies. 

"Maybe you've already found him. I mean, there's got to be a reason why you got out. Why someone brought you out. And you were always much better at -" He stops himself. "It would be better if you found him and I'd be gone," he says. "If Dean ever came back... He would probably kill me. He already told me he would the last time."

He does not feel sorry for himself. He realizes it would seem right to him. To die at Dean's hands. But it would not be fair to Dean. 

"Do you hate me?" Sam asks. "It's okay if you do. I would too. But I had no other choice. I had to leave. Cause you see, I loved Dean and I still brought on the apocalypse. You loved Dean and you still turned into a semi-God out to demolish everything. And I - I love you and I'm still here, high out of my mind, so what -"

There's a beep. He's always surprised by how long the messages are that he gets to leave, but now he's taken aback by the abrupt ending. He figures, he’s said what he wanted to say. 

He pockets his phone. 

He puts his hands to his mouth, forms them into a cone shape and shouts the dog's name. 

They don't find a motel tonight. He sleeps curled up in the front of the car, the dog in the back. As far as dependencies go, at least this one is useful and cheap. He could have chosen worse fates. 

There's no way to O.D. All you do is get stronger, until eventually you cease to be human. Maybe it would not be the worst thing, to just let himself fall into what, deep down, he’s always known himself to be. It won’t take long until he will reach his final stage, and become the monster Dean already once considered him to be. It’s unclear to Sam if he’s ever fully stopped seeing him that way. 

_You're not you anymore. And there's no going back._

In the backseat, God is still chasing mice through the fields. Everyone dreams of what they once had. 


	13. Chapter 13

There's a knock on the door.

Sam let's go of the plaid shirt in his hands and waits a moment. There's a second knock. Housekeeping, he thinks. Or maybe there's something wrong with the way he parked the Impala last night. He can’t rule out the possibility that he took two spaces - or maybe handicapped parking, if a dump like this even has a designated handicapped parking area. 

"Hang on a second." He picks up the shirt again, pulls it around his shoulders and puts his arms into the sleeves. Still buttoning it up, he opens the door.

He blinks and doesn't say anything. His fingers slide off the shirt and hang loose next to his body; the upper half of the shirt stays unbuttoned.

"Will you let me in?" Castiel asks. He's wearing a forest green training jacket, black jeans and neon sneakers. It's the clothes that tell Sam that Castiel has not found his grace, that he's still almost-human.

Sam steps aside.

God goes crazy. She jumps up and down, puts her paws onto Castiel's legs, and will not stop howling with happiness. Castiel bends down to pet her.

It gives Sam a second to take in what is happening.

Apart from the weird second hand clothes, he looks well.

A rush of relief floods him as he realizes that this means Castiel is fine. The worry he hadn't allowed himself to feel after Crowley’s words swims up the the surface. The relief does something funny to him. It makes the guilt that had been gnawing at him in the background, that he hadn’t allowed to consider in full, pop up and seep into every part of him.

He asks what Castiel is doing here.

Castiel straightens up. Something in him lets the dog settle down at his feet; she licks the dust-ridden white soles of his shoes.

"I'm here to save you," Castiel says.

Sam is too surprised to reply.

"It took me a while to find you. Human investigation is quite difficult, especially if you don’t have any help."

"I know."

Castiel pulls up his nose.

"What?" Sam looks around the room.

"I can smell it on you. The demon blood."

Sam stays silent. He turns around, walks over to his bag. He'd been meaning to leave early in the morning.

The room is tidy. There's been many nights when he’s woken up in a mess of blood and torn clothes - his own clothes, never anyone else's. It wasn't that there had been no opportunity, or that he hadn't felt lust.

"How did you find me?" Sam asks, side-stepping the topic, and not looking up from his bag.

"I know you."

That's not a real answer. Sam zips up the bag.

"It took me longer than I’d wanted to. I had to get enough money first and make sure I knew where you were. I was working a job at a gas station. But I heard all your messages."

"If you heard them," Sam says, angrier than he expected, "why did you never pick up?"

When there's no reply, Sam slowly turns around. Castiel's face is grim.

"You did not want me to pick up," he says. "If I'd picked up, you would have stopped calling."

He is right.

"I know this the same way I know that if I’d warned you I'd be coming, you would have gone into hiding. You would not have taken out that nest of vampires last week, you would not have left a trail."

Sam looks around the room, then he picks up his bag. "I don't need saving," he says.

"You're not sending me away again."

"Or what? You're gonna tell on me?" Sam laughs.

Castiel's face falls.

"You're gonna kill me? Tell me, what exactly are you gonna do? Keep me chained up in a basement like Dean and Bobby did? I'm not gonna let you! You can forget about it."

Castiel shakes his head. "I would never do that to you."

"What then, huh?"

Castiel puts his hands into the pockets of his jacket, the material crackles like a thin plastic foil. The sound has a strange quality to it, as if electric sparks were flying.

Sam stands still.

"Do you wish to keep drinking demon blood?" Castiel asks.

"It makes me stronger."

"Is that a yes?“

It is a question Sam hasn't really allowed himself to ask since he's started again. It's never about what he wants.

"Are there downsides?" Castiel asks, as if he doesn’t know.

"I've not fucked any demons of late, if that's what you mean. I’m not trusting the wrong people. I’m not working with anyone at all. And I've not done anything - I've not done anything wrong."

Castiel nods.

"If you don’t wish to stop, I won't make you. But your messages indicated otherwise."

Sam holds onto the bag under his arm, and picks up the leash off the table.

Castiel follows him outside, the dog trailing him.

Next to the Impala stands a small black Lexus.

"Is that yours?" Sam asks.

"More or less."

"You stole it?"

"I borrowed it."

Castiel follows him into the Impala. He looks around, watches God settle in the back.

"I'm sorry if this is not what you expected," Sam says. "I'm not a mess. I'm fine."

"I believe you."

Sam starts the car. He can't shake the horrible feeling that he's lying, and Castiel knows. But Castiel looks at him with big trusting eyes and doesn’t make him admit anything.

"Where are we going?" Castiel asks, as Sam drives off onto the highway.

"Seattle," Sam says, without explaining any further. It's a few days drive.

Sam turns on the radio to drown out the silence.

"The music," Castiel says. "It’s different."

Sam raises an eyebrow, dares to fully look at him for a second.

"It's different to Dean's music," Castiel clarifies.

"Yeah well." Sam's jaw tenses. "I'm not Dean."

They drive for the better half of the day, mostly in silence. Sam gets them a motel room with two beds and a broken bathroom door.

"Don't you have any kind of luggage?" Sam asks, when he puts his bag onto the chair inside the dimly lit room.

"No," Castiel says. "I only have these clothes and my wallet."

"You reek," Sam has noticed over the hours in the car.

"I know."

Sam pulls out a fresh pair of underwear and a T-shirt that runs a little snug. "You should go take a shower."

Castiel takes the clothes out of Sam’s hands and leaves for the bathroom.

God is so exhausted; she’s already turned herself into a fur ball under the table, her body rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

Sam’s right hand trembles. He sits down on the bed, and presses his hand flat against his thigh. He listens to the spray of the shower. All he sees through the crack of the door is the bright neon light and a vague outline of the sink. 

He thinks of his empty flask.

He gets out of his clothes and continues to sit in the same spot, in his undershirt and boxer shorts.

Castiel looks forlorn when he enters the room again, wearing Sam’s clothes.

Sam had forgotten this feeling. Seeing Castiel like this. It’s an instant emotional switch, like tasting food that throws you right back into childhood memories, where you touch and taste everything as it once was.

Sam looks away.

Castiel must be hungry, but Sam doesn't ask. He doesn't ask anything at all.

Anger and shame are battling for dominance.

They lie awake, both incredibly aware of the body only a foot away from the other. The sound of their breathing mingles with the dog's sleeping sounds. She must be dreaming of running.

If Castiel spoke, he would answer, Sam thinks.

And if Sam said anything, Castiel would talk too.

Castiel must be wondering if he did the right thing in coming here. Sam isn’t sure what to feel. Knowing that there’s a part of him that is glad for Castiel’s presence makes him feel angry and weak.

Sam knows he must have fallen at some point, because he experiences the sensation of waking up under watchful eyes.

Castiel sits on the corner of his bed, his head tilted to the side. Sam's old T-shirt hangs off his shoulders a little, his collar bones protruding under smooth skin.

"Are you experiencing withdrawal symptoms?" Castiel asks. "Or are you sick?"

He gets up, walks over to Sam's bed and puts his palm on his forehead. "You run hot."

Sam wants to tear himself away. He doesn't.

"It's just stuffy in here. Two people and a dog, no open window. That kind of thing."

Castiel looks doubtful but he reaches over Sam's bed for the window, and unlatches it. You can only open it a fingerbreadth wide, and the air from outside feels almost as stale as the one they’ve been breathing in all night.

Castiel looks between both beds, doesn't settle down anywhere. He just stands.

"How do we proceed?"

"Is there any way you’d leave if I asked you to?"

"No. Not unless I have assured myself you're fine."

Sam heaves his legs outside the bed, his naked feet stick to the carpet. He tries not to think about what kind of residue he's just touching. This is the kind of carpet that is un-vacuumable.

"And how are you gonna do that?" Sam feels hungover, but he sits as upright as possible and tries to get rid of the scowl on his face. "Look at me. I'm fine."

Castiel does look. He takes him in for a while, silently agreeing or disagreeing with Sam's assertion.

"If you're in withdrawal-"

"I'm not an addict," Sam says with acidity in his voice. "I never was." He doesn’t know where the need to push the lie stems from. They are both aware of the messages on Castiel's phone, even when Sam can't remember the exact words. He wonders if Castiel has saved them. If he ran out of space and deleted them. If he knows them by heart.

It's still early in the morning when they leave the motel behind them, and make their way to the car.

Sam can’t help but let some of his guard down. He allows himself the comfort of listening to Castiel’s voice without antagonism, but he’s still weary and doesn’t speak much himself. He’s tempted to ask about Crowley’s insinuations, but that would open up a whole nother can of worms.

It's already starting to feel right again. Sam in the driver's seat, Castiel beside him, a mostly calm dog on the backseat. Dean would kill him if he saw this. If he heard the music. The conversations that drift to anything and everything. Castiel tells him about his job. He speaks about the customers and his work as if it's the most meaningful thing he's ever done. As if pumping gas and selling gum and stale coffee was the most exciting thing you could think of.

At one point Castiel's hand slides over the seat, his pinky finger brushing against the back of Sam's hand. Sam doesn't pull away, but he doesn’t react either.

At night, in the second motel of their route, Castiel stands against the window, while Sam unwraps two sandwiches out of their plastic foil.

"I thought you'd have met someone."

Sam lets go of the sandwich in his hand, a limp piece of cucumber slides out from between the mayo-soaked bread sides. "What do you mean?" Sam asks. "Someone? Like who?" He tries not to glare, to make his eyes soft instead. He wants to hear this.

Castiel doesn't say anything, his tongue moves around in his mouth. He is stalling.

"I told you I needed to do this on my own."

"And did it help?" Castiel asks. "Being alone?"

Sam starts unwrapping the second sandwich. "We need to get you some new clothes tomorrow. You can't walk around like this."

"Don't you still have your Fed suits in the trunk?"

"You want to walk around in Dean's suit?" Sam asks back.

"If you don't mind."

"I guess I shouldn't."

Sam sits down on the small table. Castiel makes his way over there slowly, circling in like a cat who acts above the food she is served.

God follows, sits down under his chair almost instantly when Castiel does. Sam’s eyes are fixed on the dog. "She really missed you."

"I missed her too."

Sam looks down at his food and picks it up from the wrapper. Thanks to the hunger, the sandwich doesn't taste as bad as it looks.

"Did you look for Dean?" Sam asks. He's almost forgotten about the two cans of beer on the table. It isn't them, drinking beer from cans in a motel room. But they don't exist anymore, he's made sure of that.

He shoves one of the cans over to Castiel who contemplates it for a moment.

At the plop of Sam's can, Castiel looks up. "No, I did not look for Dean," he says. "Finding you seemed more urgent. Is that heresy?"

Sam moves his head from the left to the right, not quite shaking it no. "I mean, you got as far as me."

"You were saving people, while I was helping people put gas into their cars."

Sam huffs out a small laugh, then shakes his head.

"I can’t believe you had to do that because of me."

"Yes, you can." Castiel hasn’t touched his own sandwich. "As you can imagine, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about why you sent me away. What I did wrong. And I came to the conclusion that my main crime was nothing I would have wanted to prevent." He pauses. "I made you feel too comfortable, didn’t I? I made you happy?"

Mayo-soaked vegetables or bread never look appealing. The white always reminds Sam a little of growing mold.

"You were right, in some ways. I was okay; I found myself a job; I managed to feed myself like you showed me to. I survived just fine. But you were wrong in most ways that truly matter. I was not better off without you. And you didn’t make me leave for me, you did it for yourself."

"That’s not true," Sam says, the lines calm and rehearsed, as he’s repeated them to himself over the last months. "I did it for the both of us."

Castiel keeps quiet.

"I didn't find anyone else, because I didn't want company. I wanted to focus." Sam looks at the sandwich. There is no way he is going to finish it. He will throw it away into the small open bin, and the strong smell of onion and mayonnaise is going to fill the room for the rest of the night. "But you were right that I was useless at it."

"Did you deliberately decide to drink blood to become stronger? To be able to use your powers?"

Castiel looks curious, not judgmental. He has been remarkable calm for someone in his position. In a way, Sam would be more comfortable with anger. Anger is how Dean would react.

"Yes," Sam says. He thinks of how it feels, the blood running down the back of his throat, more refreshing than the coldest drink in the most blistering heat. "Mostly."

"Did it help?"

"I am stronger."

"And has being stronger brought you any closer to Dean?"

Sam pulls a face. He gets up, takes his sandwich and throws it away. It makes a hollow plonk against the metal as it lands in the bin. 

"Do you plan to continue?"

Sam's fingers curl around the back of his chair. "No."

Castiel tilts his head.

"No. Like you said, it didn't help. I got stronger, and I can, I can help more people now, but -"

"Your powers don't rely on the consumption of demon blood."

Sam sucks in his lower lip, presses his teeth into the soft pink flesh.

"You could continue helping people, and -"

"It doesn't work like that," Sam says. "I get a really bad headache and nosebleed. I tried it, once or twice."

"Dean didn't know."

"Of course not." Sam lets go of the chair and walks over to his bed. "Anyway, that's totally beside the point. Dean wouldn’t tolerate it. He’s always hated anything that was weird or different about me. Long before Ruby." Sam pauses. "Not that it would work. I don’t have powers without the blood."

Castiel shakes his head.

"This is not true. The blood works much like any drug that lowers inhibitions. It just makes you less scared of tapping into your powers. It makes you stronger too, but your abilities are there anyway. They always are, they’ve just been dormant."

Sam thinks of what Ruby told him at the end. It’s not the first time he’s thinking of her words.

"Are you saying I'm supposed to keep doing what I'm doing?"

"I'm not saying anything. At least, I’m not telling you what to do. I’m just explaining a fact. You can keep saving more people with your powers, without having to drink demon blood. If that’s what you wish to do."

Castiel must have either very little self-respect - Sam thinks as he considers his motionless face - or care too much. He should not have come for him. Sam should still be on his own. It makes Sam angry that he’s not.

"No," Sam says. "I’m done with it. All of it. I’m just a regular hunter."

Castiel looks at him skeptically.

"There is nothing regular about you, Sam, and there never was."

The pressure headache starts again. Sam tries to ignore it as best as he can. He winces momentarily, but he doesn’t put his hand to his forehead, knowing that Castiel watches his every move. Still, Castiel asks if he’s in pain.

"No," Sam says, willing the pounding in his head to quiet down, "I’m just tired."

"Yes. We should sleep."

Castiel sits down on the bed beside him, his head bent forward as if in silent prayer.

Sam wants to reach out; he wants to apologize.

He pats Castiel’s shoulder, just once, and leaves for the bathroom.


	14. Chapter 14

It is not like it used to be between them. It is tense, and Sam knows whose fault that is. He’s easily irritated, sometimes brusque. He’s not entirely sure how much of this comes down to his inability to accept that Castiel is really back, and how much of it is a side effect of detoxing.

Once they are in Seattle, they deal with a Poltergeist. Castiel gets hurt badly enough that Sam has to half-carry him back to the car and from there towards the hotel, where he collapses onto the bed. He’s too weak to move much by himself; his hand lies curled next to his head. His breathing is shallow but he’s awake.

Sam takes off Castiel’s shoes, peels him out of his jacket and cuts open what remains of his shirt to examine him; he was thrown through a window. Sam is mostly worried about a concussion or that something is broken, but when he mentioned the word hospital, Castiel insisted that he was okay. Sam doesn’t like hospitals much either, but it’s got to be different for someone who is used to healing himself. So against his better judgement, Sam has driven the Impala back to their hotel. He knows what it feels like to not have someone respect your boundaries, regardless of what’s truly best for you.

Sam sits on the side of the bed and picks shards out of Castiel’s chest, out of his shoulder and out of the soft tissue of his side. Sam watches for changes in his face or any wincing when he moves Castiel’s body.

Castiel falls asleep while Sam’s still tending his wounds.

Sam already knows that he won’t shut his eyes tonight. When he’s put disinfectant on everything, he pulls the blanket off his own bed and covers Castiel’s body with it.

Castiel sleeps in a twisted position, the one Sam figured from his moans and movements to hurt the least. His head is propped up on the pillow, his chest rapidly rising and falling.

Sam considers walking away. He would leave him the Impala, and take the red Toyota he saw when they sneaked into the back of the hotel (in case there was someone working the front desk this late at night).

Sam has seen plenty of wounds and he’s not squeamish. It’s not about the severity of Castiel’s injuries, it’s the fact that they wouldn’t be there without Sam.

He sits down on Castiel’s bed and listens to his breathing. Listens that it doesn’t get too shallow. He stays this way for the night.

From the moment Castiel wakes up, they fight.

"I knew this was bound to happen." Sam curls and uncurls his fist.

"I'm okay." Castiel props himself up onto his elbows, as if to prove his point.

"You could have died."

"There is always danger involved in hunting."

"If you'd not been with me, this would never have happened!"

"If I hadn't been with you, you wouldn't even know if I was still alive or not."

Sam is taken aback for a second; he pushes a strand of clammy hair out of his eyes. "You told me you were doing fine on your own."

"No thanks to you." Castiel glares. "Besides, if I hadn't been with you last night, you would probably be dead. You would have been overpowered."

"So?"

Castiel’s face changes from anger to sadness. Sam cannot look at it.

At night, Sam makes sure that Castiel is physically fine - he is so much better than last night that Sam thinks there must be more of his grace left than he previously thought. Then Sam leaves for a bar, where he intends to get drunk. Instead, he meets a demon. Of course he does.

Sam drinks him whole until nothing but an empty shell remains. He drops the body onto the ground behind the bar. Sam somehow knows, the person inside was still alive when the demon took him.

Sam feels so good, that it doesn’t immediately register that he's effectively killed a human being because he couldn’t deal with his anger. He always used to blame Dean for being unable to deal with emotions; he himself is much worse.

So much for saving people. So much for having a function of any kind. For being a force of good in the world despite everything.

He leaves the corpse behind the dumpster. His hands are shaking but it's a tremor of energy: Euphoria and insanity at once.

He steps into the Impala. He drives as fast as the car will let him. In a daze, he barely notices stopping at the hotel.

Castiel looks up from the bed, when Sam enters.

Sam is covered in blood. He's wiped it from his jaw with the back of his hand, but his shirt is soaked and his lips are cherry red.

He feels good, too good. In the end, it is this what saves him.

Castiel gets up, walks towards him with his hands outstretched. He moves carefully like he’s handling a wild animal that easily gets spooked. He doesn’t touch him. He just waits.

Sam doesn’t know what is going to say until he says it.

"I think I might need your help after all."

* * *

As far as motel rooms go, this one is rather fancy. Sam hopes his fake credit cards won’t max out too quickly - he was lucky to still find functioning ones in the Impala. They’ve been staying here for two weeks now. There's a big green yard in front, where God is not allowed to play. She does it anyway, and despite the big sign on the lawn none of the other guests here bother telling her off.

"How are you feeling?" Castiel asks when Sam wakes up. He asks every day.

"I'm okay," Sam replies most days, with varying degrees of truthfulness.

Castiel treats him like he has the flu. There's a fever and shaking, but as Castiel tells him this is less a physical disease than it is a spiritual one.

Sam drinks buckets of chamomile and peppermint tea, as if herbs could drive out the thirst for demonic blood.

It is not like it was the last time. There are no hallucinations. He doesn't see himself as a child, or people of his past and present. He's not even chained to anything. He could just up and leave. Although he's feeling weak and shaky, he's still stronger than Castiel. There are plenty of moments where Sam could quietly slip out of the door, car keys in hand.

There are nightmares, but they’re not much worse than the ones he's had since he'd left their home.

The temptation is there every day. He finds good reasons why he should leave: The ease of the detox proof that there never was any addiction. So it won't matter if he goes out and drinks some more to get stronger. This started as a rational decision after all. He's doing this for other people, not for himself. This is the only way to help Dean.

Sometimes, he will lie on his mattress and think these thoughts. His eyes dart towards the door, and God who he thought asleep will get up and jump onto the bed with him. They're both big for their species, and sharing the small bed is not easy, but stuck to a warm canine body that needs him, Sam has no option but to stay.

Other times, his eyes will drift from the door back to the sleeping figure on the other bed, and he decides he cannot do this to Castiel. Not that going cold turkey now undos any of the damage Sam has caused, but at least he can make sure that it won't get worse. He can at least do this for him.

One time, he is already half out of the door, when Castiel stirs in his bed. Just the white of his eyeballs are visible in the pitch black room. "I couldn't sleep," Sam says. "I was gonna get a coke. Do you want anything from the vending machine?"

Castiel waits and shakes his head. It's a flimsy lie but they both let it pass. Sam really goes out and buys a coke. It takes a while for the coins in his pockets to reach the slit of the machine; his hands shake so badly. The drink tastes watery and thin. It's not at all what he needs.

He sits on his bed, muscles like chewed and spit out gum, pressing the cold can to his heated cheeks.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Castiel wants to know. He always wants to help, help, help.

Between sips, Sam says, "We still need to get to San Antonio."

Castiel has sat up on his bed. "Do you think this is still relevant? It was weeks ago."

"There is a second death. Another student died last night." Castiel doesn’t want him reading the news right now, but what else is he gonna do? You can only read so many novels, watch so much trash TV.

"Maybe another hunter - "

"Cas," he says firmly. "I need this. This will be good for me."

The same words he’s said to Dean so many times before. But he’s not sure if it’s the hunting he needs, or if he just needs something, anything.

"Are you sure?" Castiel asks.

"Yes."

They leave the next morning. Sam is tired but glad to get away from this place.

"When I came," Castiel says, in the car, as Sam’s make-shift rehab gets smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. "I hoped you weren't that far into your old ways and that it would be easy to cure."

"I'm fine."

"So I've helped you?" Castiel asks. "You feel fully recovered?"

Sam moves his hands around the wheel, holds it tightly to prevent his face from melting.

"More or less. I guess, physically I’ll still need a few days until I’m up to speed, but I’m ready to forget about all of it. I’m ready to move on."

There's a long pause.

"So do you want me to leave? Now that you’re well?"

Sam's knuckles turn white against the black of the wheel. "Do you want to leave?"

"I've never wanted to leave you in the first place."

"Okay," Sam breathes out. "Then stay."


	15. Chapter 15

  
Working cases with Castiel is nothing like trying to live a quiet life with him. But they are adapting; they start to function in that new capacity. 

It is not like it was with Dean; Sam can’t tell if that’s a bad thing or not. 

To some they appear as two odd FBI agents with a big fluffy dog by their side, to others as friends looking for an old buddy who’s just disappeared. Once a gay man whose place is haunted mistakes them for a couple, and Sam doesn’t correct him because he feels like it might embarrass him if he did. But later, when the remains are burned and they assure the man that his apartment is safe now, Castiel puts his hand on Sam’s lower back. It’s a nice touch. Sam spends the rest of the day wondering why they give off couple vibes, and reminding himself that people used to think the same about him and Dean. 

Castiel doesn’t mind doing research. Sitting in a motel room with an opened book on one side and Sam’s laptop on the other is not that far off from when they spent their days reclining on the couch watching TV or reading books. 

After tonight’s hunt they’re both euphoric and bloody and full of grime. They stumble into the motel. Sam kicks off his shoes. Sam asks if Castiel wants to use the shower first. Castiel’s got some skin and blood stuck in his hair, and Sam picks it out without comment and throws it into the trash. 

"Yes," Castiel says very seriously. "If you don’t mind." 

Castiel disappears into the bathroom. Sam doesn’t dare sitting down anywhere on account of his clothes. The Impala needs some serious cleaning tomorrow. Even then, it’s going to stink for days. There’s a sound coming from the window. Sam looks up, his hand already on his gun. A shadow appears for a second — then it’s gone again. Sam decides to tell Castiel about it later. He tip toes to the window, looks outside, then he steps outside the room. It’s night, but the lights are bright enough that if there was anyone near, he should be able to see them. 

There’s no one there. He lowers his gun. 

Castiel stands in the room, a towel around his waist. He has finished showering, but he’s hurried out of the bathroom without properly drying off, and has left wet footprints all over the red carpet. 

"What happened?" he asks. "I heard you leave." 

Sam wants to ask how Castiel could hear over the sound of the running water, but even without fully functioning grace Castiel is not human and neither are his senses. He could smell the demon blood on Sam. Sam wonders what he smells like to him now, besides sweat and monster intestines. 

"I thought I saw someone outside."

"Someone?" Castiel steps closer, his hand holding the towel knot tightly against his hip. "Do you think we missed someone and they came back?"

Sam shakes his head. "It was probably just someone staying at the motel."

Castiel nods. Sam tears his eyes away from Castiel’s torso, and points towards the bathroom. "You done in there?"

Castiel nods tersely. 

When Sam closes the bathroom door, his eyes are focused on a specific point of Castiel’s neck. A knotted muscle under wet taunt skin. Then he sees nothing but chipped brown wood. 

He puts his shirt into the trash; it’s ruined. Maybe he can get the blood out of his jeans, it’s only spotty, but the shirt is not salvageable. 

Sam takes his time showering. When he steps outside the showering cabin, he realizes his clean clothes are all on the other side of the door. He gets back into his boxers. Castiel has only left him with a small towel on the rack. Sam dries his hair with it for a good while. He leaves with his dirty jeans thrown over his arm like a waiter’s cloth. 

He heads towards his bag, when Castiel stops him. He sits on his bed, still with his towel around his waist and otherwise undressed. 

"Sam." His voice demands attention.

Sam lowers the jeans onto a chair, and turns around.

Castiel looks at him and waits a beat before he asks, "Did you ever regret asking me to leave?"

Sam swallows. He decides to go with the truth. 

"Yes," he says. "But not because I was wrong about you and me."

"But?"

Sam sits down across from him on his own bed. He tugs at the blanket and considers pulling it over his lap but decides against it. "Just for selfish reasons. Because I missed you. And because, you know, I had a dog with me that hated me for leaving you."

Castiel doesn’t smile. 

"I was right about the main thing." Sam’s face remains stoic as well. "I’m not good for you."

"You don’t need to be good for me," Castiel says. "For me to want to be with you."

Sam winces, draws his face away. The euphoria of the hunt has long abated. Now all he feels is the soreness of his muscles, the tiredness in his bones. And shame.

Castiel stands up, crosses the short distance between them and sits down next to Sam. 

* * *

So they hunt together. Sam stays sober.  
  
Although he said he’d stop, a few times he still ends up pulling demons out of their hosts with his powers. He gets headaches and a nosebleed and afterwards he always feels hazy and a little dizzy and like the onset of nausea is just around the corner. But it always leaves again and then he feels — normal. Fine. It’s not easy, but everyone he gets to save is worth it, he tells himself. Besides, Castiel seems to approve; he suggested it after all. 

Sam wonders if the real reason he ever stopped wasn’t because he thought it was the right thing to do, but because he knew Dean needed him to. 

They drive through the country together, as if that’s the way it was always meant to be. It doesn’t feel strange to sit in the driver’s seat of the Impala anymore. It hasn’t for a long time, not when he was alone. But now it doesn’t even feel strange to have someone else there by his side — and a dog on the backseat. The slightly wet smell, the wiry fur that’s sawn its way into all pieces of their clothing: it’s all part of his new normal. 

Sam asks Castiel once, if he doesn’t want to try and get back the remainder of his grace ( "your angel mojo," Dean’s voice echoes in his mind). Castiel declines. He says there’s no point, no way to go about it. Sam doubts it, but he recognizes Castiel’s need to make his own decisions. It’s his body, his life. And if he doesn’t want to go through the ordeal of finding ways back, it doesn’t matter whether it is because he thinks he doesn’t deserve it or whether he doesn’t want to confront his own fears. It’s his choice. Sam knows he should have recognized that long before. Castiel is not a child. Castiel is his own being, and he can make his own wrong decisions. If he wants to spend his life hunting on the road; if they both want to mimic Dean’s life in lieu of saving him; if they want to live in a way that makes Dean’s absence a lot more acutely obvious — then it’s their own choice of downfall. 

Sam is throwing sticks for the dog to fetch. She seems almost happier on the road than she ever did at home. Not for the first time Sam wonders how anyone could have ever abandoned her, left her alone to die. 

Sam returns to their motel room, a mélange of green and old fashioned patterns on the wall — there’s no table, no nothing. Castiel sits on the floor between the two singles, his legs drawn in, Sam’s laptop on his knees. He’s wearing a puzzled expression on his face. 

"What is it?" Sam asks. 

God shakes herself; she’s rolled around in the damp grass outside, and a few droplets spray around the room. She walks up to Castiel, nudges him, and absentmindedly he starts patting her. His eyes never leave the screen. 

Sam sits down on his own bed, a little to the left of him. He feels oddly patient. 

"I might have found something," Castiel says finally and looks up. He has to crane his neck to reach Sam’s eyes. 

"A case?"

"No. There’s this man. A professor for anthropology, specializing in sects. He was almost let go of his position when he wrote about having religious experiences. He wrote about it in his own time, on his blog — there was a whole back and forth between him and the university. He was tenured and popular among the students and his colleagues, so in the end the university kept him teaching. In turn, he promised not to talk about it anymore. I found his old blog entries, deleted by now of course."

Castiel turns the laptop around and hands it to Sam. 

The first sentences are just religious mumbo jumbo. It takes Sam a while to understand what this guy is claiming. 

"He was in purgatory?" Sam asks. "And got out?"

"At least he claims he did."

"But if you’re showing me this, you think it’s legit." 

The dog has lain down, her paws crossed and her snout flat on the linoleum floor. She sighs contently. 

"There’s not much actual description of his time there. It’s mostly a reflection of his sins and the meaning of being able to return. It’s quite... mythic. But from what he writes —"

"It checks out?" Sam asks, a little out of breath. 

"Yes, it fits my experience." 

"There’s not much lore on purgatory where he could have gotten that from."

"No," Castiel agrees. "Not as far as we know."

Sam’s heart is beating faster. 

"So you think he’s telling the truth?" 

He puts the laptop onto his knees. He wants to continue reading and needs to hear Castiel speak at the same time. He needs to make sure he’s understanding this right. 

Castiel looks conflicted. "I think we should visit this man, and figure out if he knows something useful." Castiel rubs his hands over his knees. "I’m not convinced that this is going to help us get back Dean. Even if he is telling the truth. Even if this man truly got out of purgatory, he might be in a similar situation to me. He might not know how it happened."

"I know." Sam nods a few times. "But he’s human, Cas. If he did it then that means it’s doable."

Castiel nods gravely. 

Sam starts reading the text in earnest. The description makes his stomach churn. It’s better than hell at least, he tells himself. It’s just fighting, endless fighting and violence — Dean is good at that, Dean knows how to deal with that. 

Sam sits on his bed. "Cas?" 

"Hm." 

"What happens when you die in purgatory?" 

"I told you. You cannot die in purgatory."

"Yes, I know, but this guy writes about bleeding out." He waits a beat. Castiel looks uncomfortable. "Didn’t you say it felt like dying for real?" 

"I’ve never died in purgatory. Angel blades were hard to come by and I managed to avoid leviathans."

"But did you watch Dean die?"

Castiel casts his eyes down. "Yes, a few times. It didn’t seem different from real death, at least physically. Of course, by then he knew that it wasn’t going to take, so the mental terror was different, I suppose. But the pain, the pain was very real."

Sam nods and tries to not think of all he’s just read and heard. He won’t let himself forget any part of it. 


	16. Chapter 16

It's hard not to get too excited. The drive to Arkansas is a few days even with the way Sam is racing. If it weren't for the dog and Castiel, if he were alone, he might never stop the car except to catch three hours of sleep every night. 

He lets himself thrive on the possibility and the overstimulation of his nerves. Castiel is less excited, and almost morose. Sam wonders if he's scared of seeing Dean again. Sam knows he has reasons enough to be scared as well, but he feels too much at once for fear to take over. Finding Dean wouldn’t just mean having his brother back, it would mean having a real purpose in this world. It would mean having an anchor, never being adrift again. He knows how his relationship with Dean works. He knows that he might rebel against the shackles of their dysfunctionality, but the restriction is familiar and comfortable in its own way too, and once it is gone, he is always disorientated. 

Castiel’s and Dean’s relationship, well, that is a different issue altogether. It always was, and although Castiel’s never revealed whatever went down between them when no one was there to witness it - Sam knows it must have been transformative. 

At one point he dares to ask, "What exactly did happen before you left purgatory?"

Castiel shifts in his seat, tightens his jacket around his middle. He's one movement away from getting his hair in order, he's that much out of things he can do before he eventually has to answer. When he speaks, he's still, his eyes on the road ahead. "I told you. I fell asleep and the next morning I woke up in a field. I didn't immediately understand that I was back on earth. I didn't know where I was. I don't know what happened between me falling asleep in purgatory, and waking up here."

"I know. That's not what I meant."

Castiel glances at him. 

"I meant more like - I know you were with Dean for a while until you left him, but how did you live?"

"You’ve read the professor's report. It's pretty similar to my experience."

Sam bites his lip. "Were you and Dean alone?"

"We were never alone. There were monsters of all kinds always nearby, ready to strike."

"No, I know. But were you always alone in fighting against them? Or did you make alliances?"

Castiel gives him a long tepid look. "We did not make friends with any of the monsters, no."

Castiel is making this hard, but Sam is not willing to give up yet.

"If you slept, did you take turns watching out?"

"Most of the time. We tried. Sometimes it was impossible because we were so exhausted. Most of the time, I watched over your brother so he could rest."

Something spiky coils inside Sam's stomach, tries to make its way out. He gives in to the jealousy a little. 

"And time passes differently there too, right? Like in hell?"

"Not exactly like in hell, but yes, time is different in each sphere."

So how long exactly did they spend down there together, huddled closely against the cold? Back to back, fighting off the monsters. A foxhole situation if there ever was one. Sam has experienced just how clingy and more affectionate Castiel has become after the declustering of his deity status. Sam thinks of Crowley some more, and yes, it's true, of course: Castiel has always been more drawn to Dean. 

Sam toys with the idea of asking. Did you ever give each other emotional and physical support? sounds opaque and stilted. Did you fuck? sounds crude. He doesn't ask, he just imagines. 

"When did you find this professor?" Sam changes the subject. "Why didn't you tell me the first time you heard of him?"

"I did not want to get your hopes up before I was certain it was worth investigating." 

It's a sound argument. It leaves Sam feeling hollow and lied to. It must be the images of purgatory that do that, that bring up the feeling of having been cheated in some way. 

They arrive in Fayetteville at night. And although Sam is eager to meet Dr. Johnston as early as possible, he wants to appear trustworthy and not freak this guy out by ringing his doorbell past midnight. 

Sleeping in the car is not a real option for the three of them. On the way Sam's found them a B&B with dog houses out on the patio, which is better than nothing, although Sam would prefer for God to stay with them. 

The room is tiny, and the single bed looks just like that: a single. Sam even checks twice to make sure that he actually booked a double room. It's a frilly place that smells of flowery perfume. A haunting wouldn't be out of place here what with the grey family portraits on the wall, but overall it's more grandmotherly than spooky. Dean would hate this. Sam can hear exactly what his brother would have to say about the pink tablecloth and the white ribbons on the drapes. 

Sam has to remind himself that he's not going to go meet Dean tomorrow. He's going to meet someone who might potentially help them find things that _might_ lead to Dean down the road. This is not the same. His pounding heart does not seem to understand the difference. 

Castiel sits down on the bed, it dips noticeably. "Awesome," Sam hears Dean comment on the softness of the bed. "Fan-fucking-tastic. Nice find, Sammy. How much do you wanna bet the water pressure here is worse than just spraying yourself down with a hose?" Even inside his head Sam wants to argue back; hoses have great water pressure when the pressure from the water supply is high enough. 

Castiel has been looking at him while he's having an imaginary conversation with Dean. 

"Are you nervous for tomorrow?"

"No." Sam stops pacing. He's not noticed he'd been pacing before. "Maybe a little."

"Are you experiencing the desire to drink blood?"

Sam's eyes go big before he narrows them. "What?" He laughs. 

"You are in a stressful situation. If you felt the desire it would be only understandable."

Drinking blood when he's so close to possibly getting Dean back is the last thing he wants. 

When Sam sits down next to Castiel, the mattress dips forward so much, they almost both slide off; it is truly a horrible bed. 

"No, I’m really not thinking about that kind of stuff at all. I’m just thinking about Dean." 

He turns to Castiel, surprised to see a rather unhappy look on his face. 

"You don’t think we’re going to find him," Sam says. "You think it’s a dead end."

"No, that’s not it. It is, in fact, rather the opposite."

Sam doesn’t understand. 

Castiel sighs. He puts his hand flat on the bed. "I am wondering what will happen if we do find him. Will it mean that I will lose you again?" 

"What are you talking about?"

Castiel cocks his head, a look on his face as if Sam is mocking him. 

Sam lowers his eyes. There is no way around the truth. He’s not allowed himself to think about the downsides, about how different things will be with Dean around. 

Castiel’s fingers touch Sam’s neck first, then they cradle his face, until Sam looks up. 

Castiel presses his lips to Sam’s like it’s a question. Sam kisses back. He parts his lips, a low guttural sound escapes. Encouraged, Castiel moves his fingers into Sam’s hair. He pulls a little to adjust the angle their faces meet. 

Sam puts his hand against Castiel’s shoulder and pushes him away. 

"I’m sorry," Sam says. "I just - I can’t. Not with —" 

Castiel doesn’t even look surprised. 


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Sam thinks he should explain himself; he doesn't. 

He holds his cup of coffee with such strength that he almost smushes it between his palms. The structure of the paper cup in his hands disintegrates more and more with each clenching and unclenching of his fingers. Sam thinks of a scene he didn’t even know he still remembered: a 16 year old Dean trying to press cardboard boxes into an overflowing garbage container outside their house in whatever little godforsaken town they were staying back then. Dean punched these boxes as if they contained the source of all the unhappiness in their lives, before he decided to climb into the dumpster to completely flatten the cardboard by jumping up and down. Sam had stood beside him, not allowed to join in on the fun. 

"Are you sure this is the right room?" Sam asks. 

"Yes," is all Castiel says. 

They're dressed in everyday clothes. Sam has ditched the plaid in favor of his least threatening combo of blue jeans and his cleanest black T-shirt. He wonders if he passes as a student, but the students they've passed in the hall and on their way up here had seemed so foreign. They had seemed both like teenagers and from a different planet altogether. 

Finally, the man whose image has burned itself into Sam's retinas from staring at his picture for so long appears before them. He looks stressed hurrying down the hall. He holds his brown leather satchel between his chin and chest while he pats himself down. Once he's found his keys, and before he attempts to open the door, Sam approaches. The man reacts a little surprised but not alarmed when Sam asks him if they could talk. He must assume they are students after all. 

He stands with his back against the desk and looks at them expectantly. Despite Castiel’s inconspicuous choice of clothes and his reservedness he is striking; his otherworldliness still surrounds him. Sam is so used to it that it takes him a moment to notice the curious looks the professor throws Castiel. Sam feels a fire of defensiveness burn; whatever it is this person thinks of Castiel, he is wrong. 

"What can I do for you?" A strand of messy brown hair is pushed out of a face. 

"We’ve read about your experiences in purgatory," Castiel says. "We want to know how you managed to escape."

The professor’s expression is harsh at first, then confused and scared, then harsh again. "I don’t know what you are talking about."

Sam has seen this many times. People denying their supernatural experiences so many times until they don’t trust their own memories anymore. People scared into being labeled as freaks for telling their truths. 

"Yes," Castiel says. "Yes, you do know what we’re talking about."

Later, after some coaxing, he does speak. He is nice enough actually. He tells them everything he knows and still - they're no further ahead than they were before. 

He cannot remember, the professor tells them, how exactly he ended up on earth again. He does not even know why he was there in the first place - he was meant to die. He tells them of a light, a light he walked into and then - earth. That is all. 

"I'm sorry," Castiel tells Sam. Sam feels like he should be the one apologizing. "It was not for nothing. At least we know now it was a portal of sorts." 

"Do we?" Sam doesn’t look at him. "Do we know that?" 

They're not staying in the motel again. They exit the university campus and head straight to the Impala. God wags her tail at them, her tongue moving in and out of her mouth, pink flesh taunting them with happiness. 

Sam is so angry, he can't even look at their dog. 

"Sam, this doesn't mean we can’t—"

"Stop." Sam says in a low wavering voice. "Don't say that this doesn't mean we won't get Dean back."

Sam starts the motor. 

Castiel's lips move slightly; it looks like he has to force them shut so he won't spill the words Sam doesn't want to hear. 

"We got to face the facts," Sam says, and accelerates the car. "We got to face the fact that he won't come back. This is the reality and just because I've managed to delude myself again that I might make it right with him, doesn't mean we need to keep doing that. Deluding ourselves."

Castiel slowly turns his head towards him. The evening light through the car window hits his cheek, makes it look translucent almost. "You want to stop looking for Dean?"

A range of emotions cross Sam's face in the span of seconds. He ends up looking soft, defeated. "It's all just semantics, Cas, don't you get it?" 

Castiel narrows his eyes; he shakes his head. 

"Life, life doesn't work like that. Look at us —" He lifts his right hand from the wheel and waves it between the two of them. "We're hunting again because it makes the pretense of looking for Dean more real. How is hunting ghosts less a distraction than repairing a sink?"

A pause, a beat. Castiel keeps looking at him. 

"Do you think, if I ever thought there was a real point in actively looking I would have stopped? No, there was just no way to go anymore. And if we ever stumbled upon something, we would have done anything to get him back anyway. You know that!" 

"I'm not sure I can follow," Castiel admits. 

Both of Sam's hands are back on the wheel. 

What he's saying is that he was wrong. He fell for magical thinking. If he only was unhappy and miserable enough, if he did what he was meant to do — then Dean was bound to turn up again. 

"It's a sort of megalomania," Sam says. "To think that whether Dean comes back or not depends on me. That it's up to me." The street is empty and broad. "I'm not special, Cas." He sounds crazed now, almost euphoric. "I'm just a guy who can't accept he's lost someone he loves. And I can’t just accept it because he's not dead. If he were dead, he'd be in hell or in heaven and I'd try to find a way to get him back too. And maybe I'd get lucky and it would work and I’d think it's all due to me trying so hard, but it wouldn’t be."

Sam turns to Castiel, suddenly unsure if he's said all of this out loud or not. 

But then Castiel says, "You want to stop hunting?"

Sam pulls up one shoulder, let's it slump down again. 

"What about the people you save," he says. You, not we. 

"I'm not the only hunter out there." He looks uncomfortable, as if Dean could still be around the corner and listen to what is essentially his former argument for leaving the life behind. "I'm pretty sure, if you tallied it up, I’ve harmed just as many people as I’ve saved."

"That's not true, Sam."

"And maybe I'm good at this job - then so what? I'm good at other things too. I wasn't such a bad handyman, was I? Maybe I'd have been a great lawyer too? You can save people's lives in a court too." He hits the wheel for emphasis. "Shit, maybe I should have become a stock broker and given all my money away to save people from starvation. What I'm saying is, this isn't the only way to do good. It's probably not even one of the better ones. If you consider all the people we end up killing by accident. And all the morally grey areas."

Castiel stays silent for a long while. 

Sam turns his head to the left. The lights of the night blur together. They need to find a place to stay and sleep. He just can't keep driving forever. 

It takes him by complete surprise when Castiel asks, "Do you want me to leave?"

Sam huffs out not quite a laugh. 

"If you plan to rearrange your life yet again, maybe —"

"No," Sam says, with surprising assertiveness. "I don't want you to leave."

He does not say that he shouldn't have made Castiel leave in the first place. It is implied. 

"You no longer believe you're a bad influence?"

Sam snorts. 

"Oh, I definitely am. But you're free to make your own mistakes."

Castiel looks guilty, shakes his head a little. "I have made plenty of unforgivable mistakes. Staying with you is not one of them." 

Sam wants to argue; every little piece of self-reflection in him wants to argue back. He can count all the charges; he could explain in minute detail why he thinks he's bad for him - but if he truly believes what he’s just told Castiel, then this isn't the point. It's all semantics, too. If you want to be dragged over to the dark side, so to speak, if you actively ask for it - isn't that as much on you as it is on the person who ultimately drags you there?

Castiel isn't a child. Castiel has messed up without Sam too. In fact, if he had listened to Sam in the first place, a long time ago, then Dean wouldn't be gone. Castiel is a fuck-up all by himself, and Sam is not almighty. Castiel's actions are not on him. 

Except for the few things Sam specifically asked him to do: to let Sam be, to leave. 

"What are we gonna do?" Sam asks, in a quiet voice. He speaks to the window, to the car, says it as much to God as to Castiel, and no one replies. 

They drive until the sun goes down. Eventually, they stop at a motel. Castiel lets the dog out to pee and walk around the block before she will fall asleep in the car again, the window cracked open. 

Sam gets them a room for two. The receptionist doesn’t ask whether he wants a double or two singles. 

He thinks of their shitty former house and the dripping faucet that he'd have needed to replace to get it fully functioning and that never seemed right to tinker with; and he thinks of their bed, and sleeping back pressed to back. He could feel the whole length of Castiel's body against his. He knows the curve of his spine and the way Castiel sometimes kicked in his sleep, just lightly. He feels a surge of longing and sickness; he feels horrible guilt when he thinks of Dean; he feels sorry for himself, for having to mourn his brother once more. 

He makes a promise to himself then, not to go through this again. To stop this insane carousel. 

He will do it now, goddamn it. He will get out and live his life the best he can, whatever that means. 

The room is more modern than he's used to. The mattress on the bed is thin and hard, the blanket searingly white, and there's a chemical smell in the air. It must be the plastic everywhere.

Castiel tells him that the dog fell asleep again, and that she is fine. He speaks of her as if they verbally communicated - maybe they have. 

Sam sits down in a green plastic chair, the round seat is a little too narrow to sit comfortably. He takes off his shoes and gets up again. 

Castiel watches him; Sam watches back. 

"Do you want to use the bathroom first?" Castiel asks, his thumb outstretched, pointing at the door they both haven't walked through yet, and Sam wonders in amazement that he is here. Castiel could be anywhere, Castiel could be with anyone. 

Sam shakes his head no. 

He walks towards him in measured steps. 

Castiel wears a quizzical expression. He leans back a little as Sam approaches, as if he's trying to let him through. Some of Sam's resolution starts to wane, but before it fully can, he takes Castiel's face in his, thumbs lightly locked under his chin, hands on his side.

Sam kisses him with ferocity and holds him so close, holds him in place. 

Then he pulls back a little. 

Castiel still looks at him with questions in his eyes. 

It's so hard to say the things you want to say when you spend your whole life around people who don't speak the most important things. You learn to communicate without words; you learn to read cues and react accordingly. 

Sam's fingers curl, his half-open hand on Castiel's cheek; he can hear his own heart beating, the sound of his breath. He thinks of God inside the car, sleeping peacefully, and — what if he just took it and claimed it? What if he did try to do the one thing he hasn't tried in years? 

It's not instincts he can trust, because his instincts are telling him to run. His instincts are telling him there's no way this is going to end in any way but heartache. But so what? Hasn't any and everything before ended there too? He’s been trying to do what he knows won’t feel good in an attempt to right the wrongs, but the world doesn’t work this way. He will not get Dean back if he just punishes himself enough, and Dean’s future does not depend on his own happiness. 

But he can follow his body’s instinct. His lips that are drawn to Castiel’s. His hands that want to touch more than his face. 

"Sam, you don’t have to—"

"I want to," he says. "You know how I feel about you."

The vaguest declaration of love, but Castiel’s eyes soften anyway.

Sam’s fingers wrap around the nape of his neck. He kisses him again; Castiel kisses back. Months of unlived emotions untangle in their mouths.

The bed is hard and unyielding under Castiel’s weight. His eyes follow Sam’s hand as it traces over his shirt down his chest, nestling at his stomach where he hesitates. 

Castiel peels Sam’s shirt off his chest where it sticks to his skin a little. It’s sweat from the stress and the long ride. A musky smell of rust and heat fills the room, overtaking the plastic scent. 

Sam thinks Castiel already knows why he pushed him away. It's because of Dean and not because of Dean. 

They kiss for a while, Sam half hovering over Castiel. Eventually their hands dare to wander again, no one knowing who starts or initiates what. Time feels like molasses. Later when Sam is washing his hands in the bathroom and he sees the time on the digital clock over the sink, it will seem odd to him, how little time has truly passed. 

Sam’s has had months and months of no sexual release but his own hand. It’s as if someone uncorked a bottle that has been shaken for ages. 

His hand finds Castiel's dick. The angle is not quite right, and they shift on the bed, half-undressed, shirts open or shoved off and Sam tries very hard not to think so much. He's trying to focus on the way Castiel's body reacts, how everything in him shifts and is drawn to him like a magnet. 

Castiel's hands find his jeans too. With one hand he unbuttons and unzips it. The straight forward grip through his boxer shorts make Sam think that this is not the first time he's touched a man - a thought that doesn't go away when Castiel starts kissing him again and the strokes grow more purposeful. 

Sam has to twist and arch to make it work. He thinks: this is something Castiel is not accustomed to, he's used to someone much shorter. 

These thoughts flow freely now, brought up by the sexual release; as if the uncorking of tension has also brought up all the jealousy that he told himself he's got no right to feel. 

Sam moans; Castiel shudders. Nothing about this is profound in any physical way. It's not much different than masturbation really. It's not, objectively speaking, one of the best sexual experiences Sam has had. Still, the emotional aspect of it overwhelms him in ways he can’t remember since his youth or maybe the first time jacked up on blood. 

When he comes into Castiel's hand, and feels himself slacken, he feels hollow and quite frail, physically overstimulated. It takes a lot of strength to finish Castiel off now, when all he wants to do is roll over, and face the wall, and the plastic chair and the stupid green plastic lamp. But he does finish him off, and when Castiel comes, he takes Sam's face into his hand and kisses him, panting little huffs of air into his mouth, and he kisses him still when the climax is over, when the peak has rolled over his body, and he too is soft and putty-like. Sam pulls his hand away, wipes it over his jeans hanging half around his knees, and immediately regrets the decision. 

Sam tries to roll away, but Castiel won't let him. He holds on to him, stroking over Sam's side with his clean hand; kissing him, pressing their noses together. Sam feels a little paralyzed.

Castiel pulls his head away. "Are you okay?" 

"Yeah." The spell is broken. Sam manages to pull himself up. He points at the bathroom door. "Just gotta go clean myself up." 

Castiel blinks. Sam pulls his jeans half up, holds them around his waist and shuffles to safety. 

He takes a long shower, then wraps himself in the one large white towel, before he emerges from the bathroom. 

Castiel hasn't moved from the bed. He lies with his arm pillowed under his head and looks at the ceiling. 

"The bathroom is all yours," Sam says. 

Castiel seems almost surprised to see him standing there, like Sam’s caught him in the middle of a daydream. 

"What are we going to do?" Castiel asks. 

"Um." Sam walks over to his bag to look for a T-shirt and boxer shorts. He realizes he's got no second pair of pants with him, and will need to have to wear his stained ones tomorrow for a bit until he gets to the car. "We should probably go to sleep."

"No," Castiel sits up, and looks around the small hotel room. _"What are we going to do?"_

Sam steps into his clean pair of boxer shorts, once white, now a greyish beige, tortured by harsh cleaning on the road, in sinks and big washing machines in rat-swarmed motel complexes. 

"Where are we going to live?" Castiel asks. "And if you don't want to hunt anymore, what are you going to do?" 

His intensity and the decisiveness of his questions overwhelm Sam. He takes out his shirt, shakes it loose and pulls it over his head. 

"Are you planning on renting a house again? I think it would please God. Are we going to foster cats? I read that —"

"Cas." Sam forces his lips into a soft smile. "It's late. Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

Castiel nods. Of course they can talk tomorrow. 

As if by tomorrow Sam will know what it is he wants, what it is he needs to do. 

Castiel gets up and walks over to the bathroom. Sam gets into bed. He can taste the stickiness on the roof of his mouth. He should have brushed his teeth, but his limbs are so heavy and he does not want to walk into the bathroom again. 

Later, when the light is turned off and they lie in bed together, not touching, but both hyper aware of each other’s breathing bodies, they actively wait for sleep or for the other to speak. Whatever comes first. 

"What do _you_ want to do?" Sam's voice floats quietly into the space between them, and hangs there for a while. "I mean, considering I got it so wrong until now… Maybe you should take over the wheel for a bit." 


	18. Chapter 18

Sam wakes up from a dream about hunting with Dean. It’s a hunt he remembers well. The demon they’d thought they were hunting had turned out to be a phenomena on the intersection of ghost and hell creature. Dean had saved his life. The dream ends with an early morning breakfast in a Pancake House that hadn’t been quite as sun-filled and airy in real life. 

Sam replays the dream in his head and thinks: something is wrong. It takes him a while to understand that it’s Dean’s voice; it’s not quite right. The pitch is too high. This is not how Dean says his name.

The harder Sam tries to adjust the sound in his head, the more wrong it gets. He concedes to the fact that he’s forgotten Dean’s voice. He reaches for the phone on the bedside table. He hasn’t done this in months, but after a moment of wading through the saved messages on his voicemail, there it still is, Dean’s voice, predictable and firm: "Sam, what the hell? Where are you? You said you’d- Oh, never mind!" 

Sam listens to all five saved messages. And Dean’s voice echoes clear and loud in his mind again, the same cadence of annoyance and possessive love he thought he could never forget. 

Next to him Castiel stirs and opens his eyes. He sits up as he notices the phone in Sam’s hand. He waits for an explanation that doesn’t come.

"Morning," Sam says and puts the phone away. 

God comes running to Castiel’s side of the bed, wagging her tail. She puts her paws on the white sheets and starts to whine. Castiel pulls the cover aside and places his feet onto the wooden floor. 

* * *

A week later they get drunk. As it turns out, if your angel mojo is nearing nil, your tolerance becomes almost human-like. 

"Time travel," Castiel slurs. He’s leaning onto a stack of books for support. 

"What?" Sam looks up surprised. His mind has been on the days to come, on their immediate future plans, and he’s caught off guard by Castiel’s change of topic. 

"I’ve been thinking a lot about time travel lately. How it could have helped us undo everything."

Sam understands that he’s talking about Dean. 

Dean, always Dean. 

It’s the drink that lets Sam think like this, lets the jealousy turn up announced and unwanted. 

It’s absurd to be jealous when all Castiel does is mirror Sam’s own thoughts. But Sam has been trying very hard not to hyper focus on his brother, to break the pattern. 

How much did you love him? Sam wants to ask. As much as me? More? As much as I love him now, but in an even more twisted way? Did you push the platonic and familial love to the edges it allowed, or was it more straight-forwardly romantic? Did you see him there in hell, the righteous man, and were instantly lost to heaven? Did you fall for him right then and there, or did he persuade you over time? 

What Sam says instead is: "I thought about time travel, too."

"I wish I could have-" Castiel says, and his voice turns so sad. Sam feels a twisted sort of anger at his brother, for devastating Castiel like this. 

Sam gets up, walks over to his friend, his companion, his something - and takes both of his hands in his. "We have to… stop this," Sam says. 

Castiel shakes his head. "No, no." Whatever he thinks Sam is talking about, he doesn’t want any of it. 

"We have to stop doing this to ourselves. It’s no good for anyone."

It’s strange to hear himself say these words, because Sam knows if Castiel had said them, he’d be denying their inherent truth. 

Castiel looks at him with big, questioning eyes. 

They have talked about it before. Of finding a new purpose and building a new life, things that sound cold and shameful in the sober morning light. 

"We have to let go." It sounds impossible to Sam, too, but he knows they have to try. "What good is it to him if we don’t live our lives because he can’t?"

Castiel does not disagree. And when Sam steps closer still and pulls him into an embrace, he lets him. He is the one who goes in for a kiss that tastes of hard liquor. 

Sam thinks: this is it. This time they are really going for it. They are going to step out of this state of limbo. They could stay here in this rented room above a run-down tex mex restaurant from which the fumes and smells escape right into their window. Or the could move far away. They could lead regular lives. He could find work as a handyman again. He’s not too old to go back to school even. 

But even if they just stayed here and did nothing, if they decided nothing else but to fully live, it would be a victory. Sam is going to stop excusing everything by invoking his brother. He’s not going to stand in his own way anymore. He’s going to give happiness a try, like he has been telling himself he would - apparently just telling yourself you’re going to do it doesn’t quite cut it.

He doubts he is going to succeed. There have been short moments of euphoria but prolonged happiness is not something he’s good at. But he’s good at being stubborn and trying against all odds. If nothing else in his life, he’s proven that he can fight when all seems lost. Maybe for once he can fight for himself instead of Dean or the end of the word. And if it turns out that he can’t do it for himself, then maybe he can do it for Castiel. For the both of them. 

And if Castiel wants to kiss him, put his arms around his back and let his fingertips travel upwards until he can feel the knobs of his bones and shoulders until Sam shivers - that is to say, if he thinks this is the life he wants to live - then Sam is not going to be the one to deny him. 

Sam puts his hands on his Castiel’s hips, over the firm and sensitive skin right above the bones. 

He lifts him up and carries him the few steps over to the window sill. It feels wrong to move someone so powerful and set him down onto a piece of wood like a doll - but he knows Castiel is still strong. It still feels like he could crush Sam with the snap of a finger. 

Castiel sweats more now he’s more human. Sam nestles his hand in Castiel’s neck, where it’s cold from the transpiration. 

They push their noses together. 

"We’re drunk," Sam says.

Castiel contemplates the collar of Sam’s shirt before he looks up again. "Was this not why we imbibed? So that we can enjoy each other without second thought?" 

Sam startles. He takes a step back. 

Castiel tilts his head. His feet don’t quite reach the floor. "Was I not supposed to mention this?" 

"No," Sam says. "It’s fine. You’re right. That’s what I was doing." 

There is no one they have to justify themselves to anymore, he reminds himself. 

He puts his palm to his forehead. "I should take a cold shower." 

Later, when he steps out of the bathroom, dressed for sleep, Castiel is still sitting on the sill, his face angled towards the window. 

Sam feels like he should apologize but Castiel could ask what exactly it was he felt sorry for, and Sam is drawing a blank. He can’t think of anything that would fit into one neat sentence. 

"You know," Castiel says towards the window, and then there is a long pause. His reflection in the glass is murky, the light too low. "You know I’ve never actually travelled? For leisure, I mean." He turns to face Sam. "What is that like?"

Sam sits down on the bed. "Not sure I’m the best guy to ask." 

"You’ve travelled before."

"I’ve travelled all my life. But you’re talking about travelling for fun. If you’re always on the road, seeing new places kind of loses its allure." 

"You have been to Las Vegas with Dean."

Sam huffs. "Yeah, I have. That’s not —" He falters. He can’t explain why that doesn’t really count. Neither do the day trips to concerts in between hunts. Not that there had been many the last years. 

Castiel walks over to the bed and sits down on the covers in a cross-legged position. "Did you never travel with Jessica?" 

"We went hiking on the weekends sometimes." 

"Did you enjoy it?" 

Sam shrugs. He hasn’t thought of it in a long time. 

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I did." 


	19. Chapter 19

Sam wakes up when a wet tongue licks over his nose. He turns his face away, half disgusted and half touched, and takes the dog’s snout between his hands. She’s hungry and excited for him to get up. 

"Did Cas already feed you?" Sam asks. "Probably not." 

He looks over at the empty space in the tent. The sleeping bag looks pristine and unused, but Sam knows it’s not. On top of it lies a heavy book of Icelandic poems that Castiel insisted on taking with him; he’s dutifully carried it with him in his backpack for the past few days, alongside his clothes, their tent and some of their provisions. He reads in it before falling asleep, and sometimes he’ll dig it out in the middle of the day when they’re on a break and Sam watches him while he drinks filtered spring water from his metal bottle. The book is in Iceland and sometimes Castiel will read a poem, and then translate it aloud to Sam. He’s grown more interested in these things he used to consider mundane as a full-fledged angel but that set him apart from humans now, like his ability to speak any language under the sun. 

Sam crouches over to his backpack at the end of his mat and fishes for the box of dry dog food; one of the things that are in his care to carry through the woods. Although Castiel keeps saying God would much rather fetch her food herself, as if she’d be able to kill even the smallest of birds. Sam fills a small plastic bowl, an excited dog pressing against his leg. 

The tent is thin and flimsy; it would not withhold a real thunderstorm for one thing, but it’s extremely efficient at capturing the heat inside, and the early morning sun has already done its job. Outside, Sam breathes in the fresh grassy smell, before putting down the bowl of dog food. God inhales it in mere seconds. Sam pats her back. "Pace yourself, girl." 

He washes his face off the dog saliva with water from his bottle, and dries his skin on the T-shirt he’s wearing. He ought to get dressed, but he just stands there, looking at the whirl of green of the trees in the soft breeze. The sound of a dog munching beside him the only thing disturbing the peace. 

Out of the forest, not on a path, but right between the thick wooden trunks, steps out Castiel. He’s wearing shorts and one of Sam’s old T-Shirts and nothing else. When he steps into earshot, onto the grassy field, Sam asks if his feet don’t hurt. 

"Yes, they do," Castiel says. "What a beautiful privilege, when the only discomfort you feel is pine and stones sticking into your sole." 

Sam returns his smile. 

"Do you wanna stay a while or should we pack up? If we hurry we can probably make it to the next hut before the weather’s supposed to turn bad."

"Then let’s leave now." 

They pack their things, and continue on their predestined route down into the forest, until the path gets hillier and their climb gets steep. Their bags feel heavy as gravestones on their backs. 

They walk for miles in silence. 

Sam is unclear when the idea of this trip turned into a serious contender, but he thinks he remembers how it first came up. Back in their cat-filled house, before all the drama and the demon blood, they had sat in front of their tiny TV and watched a documentary on through-hiking. Sam had mentioned that he’d always been curious. He had taken small day trips on his own once or twice through the years - mostly when things between him and Dean had turned especially tense - and he’d gone hiking with Jess in California sometimes. They had talked about how they’d do it regularly once they’d settled and found their home closer to her family. But the idea of hiking for months on end, never encountering people who weren’t on the same path as you - physically if not metaphorically - had always called to him; it carried the allure of freedom, in a similar way to how a regular 9 to 5 lifestyles had seemed exotic and desirable to Sam back then too. As a self-chosen alternative to what he knew and did not want. 

It is more physical than he remembers. He’s underestimated the terrain. He’s in good shape but walking for so long, under any weather conditions, is different. But he likes how strenuous it is; it feels like he’s returning to what humans were once made to do - walk around until you reach somewhere you can settle. He’s thinking and seeing things more clearly than when they stayed in one place or when he was hunting on his own. He half expects to run into a mystical creature out here. If it’s a demon, he feels prepared to deal with it without wanting to drink them dry. But all they have met so far is an arrey of birds and insects and one lone red fox. Although God is quiet, she seems to keep everything else at bay. 

Sam feels settled and more grounded than he can ever recall. There is a purpose in hiking itself, a reason to get up and get dressed and make it through the day. You need to walk the certain miles or you’ll run out of food. It is what he imagines therapy might be like. 

"I’m gonna apply," Sam says, apropos of nothing, when they’ve finally reached a section that is almost flat, and where walking feels as easy as skipping compared to the hard miles past. 

"Law school?" Castiel’s voice is undefinable. He’s told Sam to follow his passions, to do what he thinks will make him happy. He’s always encouraging but wary too. Sam can’t blame him. 

"I can’t apply to law school right now. I never finished college." 

"College first and then law school?" 

They’re walking in line, the path just broad enough for both of them to fit on there, but too narrow for their shoulders not to bump into each other. They have to watch their steps too. 

"I’m not sure if I really feel that passionate about law anymore," Sam says. "I don’t think I ever really did. Sometimes I think I chose law because it just seemed like the biggest fuck you to my father."

"What are your passionate about?"

"I don’t know." It’s hard to shrug with the weight on his shoulders, but he gives it a good try. "But I know I want to learn and I know I want something else. Maybe I’m just going to get my degree and that’s it. I should be able to do that in one semester." 

Castiel nods. 

"It just seems like something I never got to finish in my past life, you know? And the fact that I’m scared shitless probably means I should do it too." 

Castiel doesn’t reply. He’s watching a bird hop from one tree top to another, just a little ahead on the way. 

"Do you know what I mean?" Sam asks again, and he takes Castiel’s hand to make him turn around. 

Castiel blinks once. "Of course, I know what you mean." He sounds a little irritated. Then he turns away from him, back to where the bird’s disappeared into the trees. 

They walk mostly in silence once again. 

The hut is barely more than a shelter and too narrow to hitch a tent inside. They consider their options, until they decide to forget about the tent and just put their mats and sleeping bags inside. Once they are done there’s still time until it will turns dark, and they spend it heating canned food over their small gas cooker - Sam’s bag - and sharing the can side by side, only dirtying one spoon. 

"Where are you thinking of applying?" Castiel asks, when Sam scrapes the spoon into the corners of the can of chili. "You could go anywhere." 

"I don’t know if it really matters. Some place I can afford and that doesn’t mind the giant hell-shaped gap on my CV."

He puts down the can onto the ground, where a bug claims it as its home right away. 

He’s starting to doubt the college plan again. He feels too old, to set in his strange ways. He’s not even sure if he could find his way around a studying schedule again, let alone the social aspects of college. 

"Maybe I could just do it online."

"If you think that would also curb your need, you could."

"What about you?" Sam asks. The sun is starting to set; it’s a good thing they already got their sleeping spaces in order. 

"I don’t need a college degree."

"No, I know. I meant: what do you want to do?"

Castiel looks far off, above the crown of the trees and over the cloud-filled sky. "You already know what I want, Sam. I’ve told you before." Then he turns around, his eyes boring deep into Sam’s. "I want to stay with you. I don’t care much about the circumstances."

Sam nods a little. "Okay." He, too, is tired of the ambiguity of their relationship. "Then let’s stay together." 

"What if you do decide to leave for college."

"Then you come with me." 

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Sam says. "I’m sure." 

He gets up to feed the dog for the last time today. 

From the open shelter, you can see the sky at night. When they’ve lain down for sleep, God curled right below their feet, Sam says: "You know, you kept asking me what I wanted to do. If I wanted to hunt or go back to school or work, and I appreciate it, I do, I haven’t been asked that much in my life - but really, I already got it. This is what I want."

Castiel’s sleeping back rustles as he turns to his side. "You want to continue hiking through the country?"

"No." Sam entwines their hands. "This. Us." 

Castiel hitches a breath. His voice is tentative, as he presses his thumb into the palm of Sam’s hand. 

"You won’t leave me again?"

"If you won’t leave either."

"Why would _I_ leave?" 

Sam can think of a million good reasons why, but he stays quiet. 

"This is very simple," Castiel says. "I would do more than is reasonable to make you happy, but I’d also do more than is reasonable to stay with you. I’m selfish and I love you - I’m selfish because I love you."

"I think that’s normal." He pauses and considers Castiel’s hand in his, pillowed on his chest. "I’m selfish too." Love is always selfish, he knows, never altruistic. 

The dog is asleep, her snoring becomes a part of the larger sound scenery of night birds, rustling trees and unknown forest sounds. 

Sam unzips his sleeping bag and after a moment Castiel does the same to his. They shuffle until they’re both ontop of Sam’s bag and the other one is spread atop as a loose blanket. It is a warm night anyway. 


	20. Chapter 20

"Don’t go yet." The words out of Castiel’s mouth are barely more than a whisper. Outside, behind the curtain, it is just as dark as in their room. 

"I have to." 

Sam bends down to the bed, one hand on the mattress for balance, the other one flat against Castiel’s sternum. He kisses him - once and then once more - while his eyes remained closed. 

"But it’s still dark outside."

"You know I got the night shift," Sam says, and tells him when he’ll return early in the morning. 

Castiel encircles both of his wrists, and pulls. Sam lands on him; a hollow "Oof" sound escapes his lungs. His annoyance doesn’t last long. He’s flattered by Castiel’s resistance to letting him leave, and Sam is always early at work. It won’t matter if he stays five minutes more, so he lets himself be dragged onto the bed again, braces Castiel’s legs and dives for his mouth. 

When the kisses turn more heated, and he feels himself harden and straining his pants, he tears himself off the bed. He goes and turns on the small bed light; he wants to take a look at his reflection in the mirror and make sure he’s presentable. His face is flushed, and his hair is a little more messy than he likes it to be, but it only takes seconds to adjust: he flattens it at the top and tugs it behind his ears, and he’s good to go. 

He bends down to turn off the light again, when something outside catches his eyes. He leaves the lamp on, his hand mid-air and tries not to blink. It’s a man looking up to their flat - at least, Sam thinks he is looking, he can’t make out his face, but there’s something about the way he holds his body, still and as if he’s waiting for a cue. 

Sam stands at the window, staring down at the shape on the other side of the road, until he suddenly disappears out of the frame. Sam can’t tell where he went. He opens the narrow window and puts his head into the icy air. It’s a bit of a suicidal thing to do - there’s still many creatures and human beings who want him dead, and here he is, giving them best range for an easy shot. But Sam doesn’t care. His eyes scan the street, the space right below the window, everything - there’s no one. 

"What is it, what did you see?" Castiel comes up to him from behind, he puts his arms around Sam’s waist, his head against his shoulder and looks outside too. His tenderness make Sam’s body relax in automatism. 

"I don’t know. I thought I saw something. Someone."

Castiel cranes his neck. "There’s no one." 

"No, there’s no one. I was just being paranoid."

Sam turns and kisses his forehead. "I gotta go," he says. "I’m gonna fetch us some breakfast after. Get some sleep, okay?" 

Castiel nods and presses his hands yes. 

The shifts at the bar aren’t great fun, but they’re okay. He was surprised to find out he likes the things about it that he thought he’d hate. They remind him of his old hunting life but in a secure, non-life threatening way. This clientele, the booze and the murkiness get to be a part of him now for orderly reasons. He’s relaxed surrounded by petty crime and drunken misdemeanors. It speaks to a sort of darkness inside him that he finds easy to accept. 

He drafts many beers today; it’s not particularly busy tonight, but the regulars put away a lot. When he leaves, there’s two of them sleeping with their heads on their table. He hears their roaring snoring even over the loud music. 

He buys bagels with cream cheese and two cups of coffee from the shop down the street from his work. He’s always the first customer after his night shifts. He doesn’t sleep after working all night - his regular lack of sleep another thing he’s kept from his old life. He’s looked up the figures for the national sleep average and he’s right smack in the middle. A nation build on sleep deprivation. Sometimes though, Castiel and him sleep in, and Sam gets to catch up 12 or 13 hours. 

The sun is rising and fills the city in a deep golden glow. Sam smiles at the dog and its owner he almost stumbles over when he steps out of the coffee shop onto the street. The woman is striking. With her long blonde hair, red painted lips and a black beret she’s stepped right out of a Parisian cliché. She picks up her Yorkie. From the stoop, even taller than he already is, he tells her she’s got a wonderful dog and she holds it up for him to pet. He tells her about God. "I hope my boyfriend’s already fed her this morning. He sometimes forgets when I’m away and then she goes a little crazy when I’m back." She looks irritated, because of the perceived maltreatment of the dog or because of the mention of the boyfriend. He dropped the word deliberately. They politely say their goodbyes and Sam turns to leave. 

There, down the street, for the briefest second, he thinks he sees it again: someone watching him. But he’s tired from work and spooked from last night, and when he walks towards the end of the street there’s no one - and he can’t see anywhere for someone to disappear into either. 

He’s a little subdued when he returns home. He puts bagels and coffee onto the table. It’s a one-room apartment, with a bed and wardrobe on one side and a desk and bookshelf on the other, and a table crammed into the middle. Their kitchen is minuscule. There’s hardly enough room for two people to stand at the same time, let alone eat in there. It’s all they can afford on his salary of two jobs, and he can’t work more while he’s trying to finish college and Castiel is trying to find himself. 

It seems to him that on a theoretical level Castiel understand the need for money, but on a practical one he thinks it’s meaningless. Money is just a human construct, and matters not when they’re so happy. 

Sam thinks, he’s always wanted to be the one to provide for someone anyway. And it’s not going to be this way forever. 

God’s bowl is half-filled, and Castiel is up and taking a shower. When he steps outside from their small adjunct bathroom stark naked, Sam smiles a little at his indecency. 

He watches him pick up clothes from their shared wardrobe, boxer shorts and a plain black T-shirt. Castiel deliberates about the pants for a while. Sam walks over to him, takes the clothes out of his hands and presses him against the wardrobe door. 

One of the downfalls of your partner walking around naked; one of the downfalls of no longer being afraid of each other. It will pass, Sam knows, the early phase of infatuation, the constant arousal at the mere sight of each other’s bodies - but he doesn’t mind. He likes the way it is now, but he also into the idea of something calmer, more settled between them. He wants the whole thing. Growing old together - whatever that means for Castiel. It’s a scary thought but he knows he wants it. 

Sam goes down on him, then and there. The door of the wardrobe rattles in the hinges, as Castiel puts his palms against it to steady himself, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. 

The coffee is cold after, when they pick it up from the table after. Castiel, fully-dressed by now, sits at the table, leant back into the chair, he looks exhausted but relaxed, like he’s just run a marathon. The cup is in his hand, a thin line of white foam on his upper lip. 

Sam sips his coffee on the bed, cross-legged, and tells him of the guy he thought he saw again. He’s surprised when Castiel goes rigid in the chair, and then sits up very straight. "I thought I saw him too," he says. "Outside the window, but only for a second."

"It’s probably nothing," Sam says, and Castiel agrees, but they both know inside their heads they’re running through every possible option, one scarier than the one before, too afraid to mention any of them. 

"Are you going to try and get some sleep?" Castiel asks as he often does. Sam shakes his head. 

"I got to study." 

Castiel silently disapproves. He says he will walk the dog. Sam doesn’t tell him to be careful, but the next hour that Castiel is gone, he can’t concentrate on his studies out of fear. He’s only taking this modern literature course because he figured it would be easy credit and maybe fun - he used to like reading books after all - and now he’s stuck trying to understand a poem that seems both plain and impenetrable. _Life is a river of love, you need to swim in it._ That part he understands and stares at, and re-reads a few times, while his heart hammers against his chest at the thought of Castiel being gunned down outside. Or taken by the angels. Killed by a group of demons. 

The door opens, and the sound of Castiel talking to God fills the flat. 

They spend most of the day together in the small room. Sam checks the windows now and again; there’s never anyone there. 

He studies at the desk while Castiel reads a novel in Italian on the bed. He makes them PB&Js which Sam eats, head still in book.

In the evening they walk the dog together. This time Sam doesn’t want him to leave on his own. 

God walks on her leash, tired and slow tonight, and they adjust their speed. They live on the edge of where the city turns into industrial fields of metal and concrete. Their usual round brings them by old factories and a small river, they walk the whole length of. It’s always quiet here at night. 

They hold hands. "I can’t wait until the semester is over with and I got my degree." 

"You enjoy studying," Castiel says with expertise on the subject. 

"Yeah, I know, but you gotta admit my plate is really full right now." He presses Castiel’s palm. "I mean, I like spending days like today, but I’m hardly home between work and university, and when I’m there, I have to study." He doesn’t mention how tired he feels, because Castiel will tell him to get more sleep. 

"What are you going to do when you’re done?"

"I don’t know. What are we going to do?" 

God has to pee. They stand and wait for her to finish. 

Castiel looks at him with soft eyes and it strikes Sam how bizarre this conversation is. How settled and ordinary. The stresses of his work and the overdemandingness of the higher educational system - he’d never thought he’d get to complain about it again. He loves the mundanity of it, the false sense of simplicity they conjured up in their life and relationship. They are not an angel and a man with demon blood running through his veins. Not a once-God and a sober junkie. They are just two people in love, trying to get by. 

Behind a row of trees to there side there is a rustling sound. Sam expects it to be the dog, until he sees her on the other side, near the water, sniffing the ground. He lets go off the leash, ignoring Castiel’s question, barely hears it, and races towards the trees. 

He can’t believe his luck when he gets ahold of a collar, when he pushes the hard body onto the ground and secures it there with the strength of his legs and a hand around the man’s throat, with a little pressure but not quite choking him. Just letting him know he could. 

Their bodies’ crash onto the ground has unsettled dust from the earth, particles float before Sam’s eyes and make him blink away tears. 

When they settle - he sees him in the moonlight, sees him so clearly like he’s only seen him in hallucinations and dreams over the past year. 

Sam breathes out a single word, rugged, like he’s the one being strangled. 

"Dean." 

Sam’s hand fall to his side, but he doesn’t move away. He sits on his brother’s chest, both of them heaving and gasping for air for what feels like an eternity. 

Somewhere behind them Castiel and the dog approach. 

Dean’s smile is crooked. 

"Hiya, Sammy." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Life is a river of love, you need to swim in it" is not from a poem, but from a tea bag. Thanks, Yogi Tea.


	21. Chapter 21

The sun is pale as milk behind the veneer of a nebulous sky. Its early morning rays shining through the window do little to illuminate the room. They’ve turned on the overnight lamp, but the light is weak and gives no illusion that it’s a normal time of day to sit around and talk. 

Sam has not slept for 31 hours, but he’s much too wired to feel his body’s fatigue. 

Dean sits on the bed, his knees spread apart, elbows on his thighs and hands clasped. 

Castiel offers him tea and after a moment of irritation Dean shakes his head and takes out a flask. He takes occasional sips throughout their conversation. 

Dean does not look like he ought to. He looks good, healthy. Whole. Sam thinks he recognizes the red plaid shirt from years ago: there’s a cut on the right shoulder where someone’s driven a knife through. 

Castiel and Sam sit at the table, their chairs turned to Dean, as he tells them how he escaped. There were rumors of a portal that he heard about just shortly after Castiel’s disappearance. He tells them how he looked for it for a long time, he can’t tell how long, but it was weeks, he says, months. He woke up in a field, complete and new. 

Sam asks how he found them. 

"I’d always find you, Sam."

Sam has to turn his gaze away, lets it wander over the desk, where his textbooks lie, revealing and accusatory. 

"When?" Castiel asks. 

"Some time ago." 

Sam thinks back to the motel, when he’d barely detoxed and seen a figure outside their motel room. Surely, Dean can’t mean that he’s found them that long ago. 

Dean puts the flask back in his jacket.

"Why didn’t you let us know?" Castiel sounds angry, as if he can hardly believe Dean would do this to them. "We were desperate to get you back."

 _Were we?_ Sam wonders. He can see in Dean’s eyes that he’s asking himself the same thing. 

"I didn’t want to put you into danger." 

"Bullshit." Sam is surprised as they are when he says it. 

They’ve already done the whole hugging-and-never-letting-go thing last night near the river, when Sam had been running on disbelief and relief. 

Now the euphoria has faded and the facts are sinking in: Dean’s been watching them, and if Sam hadn’t caught him, who knows when he’d let himself be known. If he was planning to reveal himself at all. 

"How’s that?" Dean asks. "I needed to know you guys were safe before I could approach you." 

"That’s not why you were watching us."

"Really. Why was I watching you then?“ 

Sam gets up, mumbles something about needing to go to the bathroom. He cannot fight with Dean now, not when he’s just got him back. He needs to see the bigger picture here: Dean is back! Alive and healthy! It’s everything he’s ever wanted, being reunited with his brother. 

The door to the bathroom is so thin he can hear every word they’re saying. It makes it difficult to walk back in. 

"You know I wouldn’t have left you there if I’d had a choice," Castiel pleads. It’s important to him that Dean believes him. 

"I know, Cas. I’m not blaming you." 

"You’re not?"

"Of course not." There’s a long pause. Sam’s hand is already on the doorknob when Dean continues. He speaks haltingly. He sounds like he’s forgotten how to talk. "I thought I’d never see you again. When you just disappeared. I looked everywhere for you. I never stopped looking. Even when I found the portal. I slept beside it for a few days. I hoped you would turn up. I was afraid I was gonna go. Leave you behind in there."

"…Oh, Dean." 

Castiel sounds as if he’s about to cry, his voice so meek and foreign. 

Sam shoves open the door. 

Castiel has his hand on Dean’s back, they sit side by side on the mattress. 

The whole flat seems wrong to Sam. He feels like he’s in a virtual reality and he can’t find the button to turn it off, to show Dean the real life he’s been leading. He needs him to see how much he’s suffered and agonized over him in the past year. What he went through to get here. 

He wants to ask him to just forget everything he’s seen or think he’s seen. They can go back to before. 

Another part, one that he’s trying to ignore, wants Deans out of here. They can meet and talk - but not in here. Dean taints this place. His presence makes it obvious how fake and fragile it all is. 

Castiel gets up and says he needs to walk the dog. She’s been lying under the table, mostly ignored by Dean. 

"So you got your dream after all, huh?" Dean says, as Castiel and God leave. Sam’s heart twists painfully. "Your very own dog."

"I ran her over and we had to take her to get stitches." 

"I saw you kept the Impala in an okay condition, but if it reeks of wet hair now, Sammy, I swear to God —"

Dean takes a look around the room. "Weird to see it from the inside. Cozy, a little small for two." 

Sam takes his chair and pulls it over, so they sit face to face. 

"Dean —"

Something in his voice makes Dean shakes his head. "Don’t bother, Sam." 

Shame runs down his spine. "I can’t believe you made it. I’ve been picturing this day for so long. I thought I’d really lost you for good this time." 

In retrospect it sounds so silly. They always find their way back to each other in the end. 

Dean looks at him for a long time. 

"When I first found you guys here, I thought to myself: This can’t be right, I must be missing something. You weren’t hunting, you weren’t looking for me, you were just… You were just doing okay."

"I wasn’t. And I did look for you. I went crazy looking for you."

Dean eyes him with skepticism. "Forget it. You can’t change it now. What’s done is done." He looks around the room once more, now he doesn’t try to hide his visible disdain. "You know I died almost every day down there. I don’t know what Cas told you about the place but once he left… It got worse."

"I’m so sorry, Dean." 

Dean waves his hand, as if it’s of no real importance that they forgot him in pre-hell. 

"Just so you know, I don’t care about whatever went down while I was gone. Whatever you had to do to keep going. And you and Cas - I get it. It happened. You don’t need to explain."

Sam presses his lips together and thinks of what to say. People fall in love, life lanes change. 

"We got to find Crowley," Dean says. "I need to kill the bastard." 

Sam stares. 

"We should leave in the morning. I don’t want to waste any more time after all of this."

Sam has college and work tomorrow. 

"I’ve been staying at this hotel a few blocks from here, but I should probably stay here with you guys tonight; I’m running out of money." 

Sam opens his mouth but no words come. 

Dean gets up to use the bathroom, then he turns around once more. "Oh yeah, I meant to ask earlier: Where’s Kevin?" 

Sam’s face falls. 

"You didn’t look for him?" Dean’s face muscles twitch. He looks like he’s trying to pull himself together. "Why am I even surprised at this point?" 

Castiel returns with God and suggests they grab some dinner, and an hour later they sit in a near-by diner, more bougie than Dean’s accustomed to, but he seems happy enough with his burger and fries. It’s been so long since Sam’s been in place like this. He orders a salad and potato wedges to share with Castiel, who doesn’t touch any of the food when it arrives. 

Across from Sam, Dean dips his fries into a vanilla milkshake and says: "So you really lost all of your mojo?" 

Beside him in the vinyl booth, Castiel moves his head left to right. "No, not all of it, but most."

"I’m sorry, man." His face is one of compassion. He puts a couple of fries in his mouth. "Where is it?"

"I don’t know."

"What did you do to get it back?" He raises an eyebrow at Sam. 

"He didn’t really want to look." 

"So you did nothing?" His eyes go big and he leans back, his arm brushing against Castiel’s before he shrugs at Sam’s incompetence. He flings a few more fries back and tells Castiel they’re going to take care of it. He’ll get his mojo back. 

Sam excuses himself, says he’s feeling a little faint and that he needs some air. 

He walks outside the diner, round the back. A few decorative red balloons hang from the rooftop. They look sad and half-deflated. Sam shoves them out his way as if they’re what’s making him feel so miserable. He comes to stand next to the trash. His head is pounding and the lack of sleep is getting to him now. It’s too bright and the stench of garbage makes him feel nauseous. 

He’s glad it’s Castiel who comes for him after a long while. He tries to not picture Dean telling him to go fetch him. 

It’s the first time they’re alone since Dean’s been back. An invisible barrier has built itself between them. 

Castiel reaches for his shoulders. They’re standing as far away from each other as the touch allows. 

"Dean wants to leave tomorrow," Sam says. "He wants to go find and kill Crowley."

"Yes, he’s just told me." 

Sam breathes in and out. 

Castiel lets go of him, and a panic sets in. Sam wants to grab his face and kisses him hard, before he can’t anymore. He doesn’t. Castiel touches his elbow and it does little to calm Sam. 

"Do you not want to find Crowley?" Castiel asks. 

"I don’t care about revenge anymore." 

"No, but you care about your brother." Castiel lowers his eyes. "Are you not happy that he’s back?" he asks the impossible question. 

"Of course, I’m happy." 

"He says he understands that God needs to come with us."

There’s some commotion in the parking lot. A women shouts something, and a grumpy older, male voice replies. Tells her to get her ass over here. 

Sam pulls his arms out of Castiel’s grip and steps back. 

"You’ve already told him you’d go." 

Something’s cutting off the pathway to his lungs and the air he breathes is getting thin. 

Castiel squints at him. "I haven’t told him anything at all. Are you thinking of staying?" 

The shock in Castiel’s voice is the thing that hurts the most. As if what they’ve built together was just a commiserate prize, a second choice - and is that not what it once was to Sam too?

"I’m almost done with college," he says. 

Castiel blinks. 

"I want to stay with you," Sam says. 

"I want to stay with you too, of course. Why are you even questioning this?" 

Sam looks at the patch of wall right behind Castiel’s head, as if he could look straight through it. He pictures Dean there in his booth, finishing his burger, maybe already ordering another one. What did he see when he watched them, Sam wonders. How much does he really understand. 

"Maybe, once Crowley’s dead, we could-"

Sam stops him. "Forget it. It’s just college, right?" 

Castiel looks doubtful. 

"I’m serious. It’s okay. Dean’s right. I — We should have looked for Kevin."

"Maybe Dean and I could go and find both Kevin and Crowley, and once the semester is over, we could all —" 

Sam shakes his head. The thought of staying behind on his own is terrifying. The fight he’d have with Dean would not be worth it. 

"Let’s just go back inside," Sam says and turns. A hand on his wrists hold him still. 

Castiel tilts his head, studies him. 

"I’m okay, Cas. Really." He puts on a stoic smile. "It’s just gonna take me a minute." 

"You don’t have to," Castiel says. "Go back to the way things were. If they made you unhappy."

The smile on his face wavers. "I’m not."

"Good," Castiel says. "Because I’m not willing to give you up."

Sam takes a deep breath. The stench from the trash bin penetrates the air and fills his nose. 

They go back into the diner and Sam finishes his food: the wedges cold, the salad soggy. Dean is planning the days ahead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading. Hope you can forgive me for the semi-open ending. 
> 
> This story means a lot to me & I feast on feedback (but i appreciate every silent reader too).


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